


What Stays and What Fades Away

by chemicaldefect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicaldefect/pseuds/chemicaldefect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thought Mary was his second chance after the events of The Reichenbach Fall. Life has other plans. Title and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You are the nighttime fear

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, shiny new AO3 account. I'm crossposting this story from my LJ account, chemicaldefect.livejournal.com. I have no beta yet, so any mistakes you notice are mine! Thanks for reading!

_It starts with a falling man (always)._

 

_“Please – will you do this for me?”_

 

_Confusion, panic, and then he’s running - runningstumblingfalling – oh God, falling, falling, falling –rough pavement on his face and a crowd of strangers and Sherlock – Sherlock falling – Sherlock on the ground (take my hand) no pulse and John is falling too –_

 

_“God, no.”_

 

“John?”

 

John startled, confused. A pulse fluttered quickly in the delicate wrist gripped tightly in his hand, a wrist far too slender to belong to Sherlock Holmes. Mary winced. John released her quickly. He turned his back to her, dropping his head to his hands. He glanced at the digital readout on the clock – 3:30 AM. Bone-weary, he sighed.

 

“Mary, I – sorry. I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

 

Cool hands tentatively rested on his bare shoulders, gently massaging away the tension there.

 

“I’m fine, darling. I’m not as fragile as all that.” Mary kissed him tenderly on the cheek. John could sense her hesitation; then, “The dream again?”

 

 _Memory_ , John didn’t say. “Yeah. I – I thought I was done with that. I guess… it’s just…” more softly, “I’m sorry.”

Mary shushed him. “It’s alright, love. Bound to be more difficult at this time of year, yeah?”

 

John remained silent. He had not been able to bring himself to acknowledge tomorrow’s date. Two years later, and he still couldn’t fully accept its significance. He hadn’t even bothered visiting Sherlock’s headstone the previous year, part of him still wanting to believe that the date was meaningless – that the space under the headstone was empty, that Sherlock -clever,  _bravebrightbrilliant_ Sherlock – was just biding his time before he came home to Baker Street – 

 

But John wasn’t at Baker Street anymore; his life had moved on, and it was time his foolish heart caught up. Sherlock Holmes was gone and he was never coming back. John reached up and gently took his wife's hands in his own.

 

“I  _have_ to put this behind me, Mary,” he whispered. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting her kind eyes.

_Blue, not grey, not like hi – STOP._

 

“How about we go together tomorrow, you and I? Pay our respects?” Mary raised her eyebrows expectantly, biting her lip in a way that let John know she was unsure. She was never sure when it came to Sherlock. John knew that was his fault. When she had broached the subject last year, John had rebuffed her none too gently. Then, when moving John’s things from Baker Street after the wedding six months ago, Mary had attempted to tidy up the kitchen a bit. Upon discovering that she had inadvertently discarded several of Sherlock’s old experiments, still fermenting in the cooler, John went into a panicked rage that nearly reduced her to tears. He still felt a surge of guilt at the memory.

 

“That sounds lovely, dear. First thing in the morning.” He squeezed her hands with a reassurance that he didn’t quite feel. “You go back to sleep; I’m just going to pop downstairs for a bit.”

Mary’s face brightened fractionally. She gave him a quick kiss before settling back into the sheets. “Don’t be too long.”

 

John patted her on the hip, then trekked downstairs to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea and settled into an armchair in the sitting room by the window ( _yellow, covered in tiny flowers; dainty and beautiful, Mary all over_ ). He knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep tonight; he never could after the dream. Gladstone, the tiny bulldog puppy that John had reluctantly adopted ( _How could he resist, when Mary’s tear-filled eyes turned to him and she said, “Oh, bless him!”_ ), yawned sleepily and trundled over from his bed by the fireplace. John lifted the pup into his lap, stroking him absently as he stared out the window at the softly falling snow. He tried to focus all of his thoughts on Mary - lovely, kind,  _gorgeous_ Mary - tried to erase the image of a familiar, lifeless face, haloed in blood.

 

He laughed bitterly to himself. John knew that image would be imprinted on the backs of his eyelids for the rest of his life.  
  
 _21 Months Earlier..._

John Watson met Mary Morstan a broken man, three months after what the press termed “The Reichenbach Fall.” John was finally moving back into 221B Baker Street for the first time since Sherlock had – since he had lost Sherlock. It had become more unbearable to stay away from 221B, from Mrs. Hudson and home, than to face the bad memories ( _Keep your eyes fixed on me!_ ). Besides - John had run out of viable reasons for Mrs. Hudson not to let the flat to new tenants. It was a piece of Sherlock he wasn’t quite ready to relinquish; Moriarty may have taken his life, the press his reputation, but this was his home –  _their_ home – and John needed to hold onto it for a bit longer.

 

His key had just turned in the lock when a noise behind him, a woman clearing her throat, made him jump and turn. In spite of his depressed haze, John recognized that the woman standing before him was beautiful. Slender and waif-like, she had sparkling blue eyes, an unruly, cascading tumble of lovely blonde hair and ( _sharp pain in his heart_ ) high, cutting cheekbones. At any other time in his life, John would have asked for her number. Instead, all he really noticed was that she was clearly in distress; a kindred spirit, then.

_Well, obviously: Slight redness around the rim of her eyes, faint trace of tear-tracks in her makeup where she tried to wipe them away, hair in slight disarray (not intentionally, look at her nails, John, for God’s sake!), and then there is of course the telling fact that she –_

 

“Are you John Watson?” She asked breathlessly, breaking him out of his ( _Sherlock’s_ ) reverie.

 

“No – I mean, well, yes, but – I’m not giving any interviews?” John’s voice raised on the last syllable, a question he already knew the answer to ( _Not a reporter, John; observe! Her clothes are far too casual and her mood far too hesitant. She’s still made an effort to look nice, although the last-season clothing hints at her income – Ah! and look at her hands, traces of chalk dust, she’s clearly a - )_

 

“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Watson. I’m – well, you see, I’m a big fan of the blog, and I was just wondering …”

 

At the mention of the blog, John froze. “If you’re such a fan, then you know what’s happened. The blog is finished. It’s done, all done.” He moved to go inside.

 

“No, wait! I’m not, I didn’t mean.” She had grown frantic, caught herself just short of blocking his entrance into the flat. She steeled herself. “Please. I have a case. I need help. I know he’s g – can  _you_ help me?”

 

John was a bit taken aback; he honestly hadn’t expected that. His tone was much kinder when he replied, “I’m sorry, love, but I’m not a detective. And, well, you’ve read the papers. There’s no help for you here.”

 

“I’ve also read your blog,” her soft eyes had taken on a fierce edge, her voice raised. “I know what he did, what  _you’ve_ done, what you’re capable of. You must have learned  _something_ from him in all those years, all those cases.  _Please_. I have nowhere else to go.”

Something in her tone – her defiant, unwavering loyalty to a man she’d never met, a man he’d lov- ( _no, can’t say it_ ), perhaps – caused John to actually consider her request. He had seen firsthand the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes, and he knew, painfully, that no mind in the world could ever even  _hope_ to be as capable at the art of deduction, especially not his own. At the same time, John hadn’t been able to switch off Sherlock’s voice in his head since the … incident, not that he’d tried too hard; it was an unending litany of observations, admittedly less genius than Sherlock’s own, but present nonetheless. Could John do it? Take on his own case? It would certainly be a way to hold onto one last piece of Sherlock’s memory, something more meaningful than a set of empty rooms –  

_Ah, sentiment. So predictable, John._

 

John’s lips quirked up in a small half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s your name?”

 

“Mary Morstan, Dr. Watson. Will…are you going to help?” A bright flash of hope appeared behind her eyes, and it warmed something within John that he thought had died, splattered on the pavement outside Bart’s. 

 

“It's John, please. I can’t promise anything, but come inside and we’ll talk.”  
  


 


	2. You are the morning when it's clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after completing Mary’s case, seven months after Sherlock’s fall, John kissed Mary for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any mistakes are mine. Story and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

Mary’s case had turned out to be quite interesting, right up Sherlock’s alley: a series of pearls sent to her from Mary’s recently deceased father, months after he died, leading up to the discovery of a murder and an ancient treasure. Sherlock probably could have solved it in a week, but it took John, Mary, and Lestrade (with limited resources, since his disgrace and demotion at the Yard) a little over a month. In the end Mary didn’t get the share of the treasure her father had intended for her, but she was more than grateful to John for bringing her father’s murderer to justice. John was grateful to her for the distraction; although he still missed Sherlock desperately, for the first time in months, he had a purpose once again.

 

Gratitude slowly grew into something more, and the end of the case marked the beginning of John and Mary’s friendship ( _not relationship, not yet, too soon_ ). Mary was patient and kind, traits that suited her well as a primary school teacher, and she had such a vivacious, positive spirit. John couldn’t help but be cheered by her presence. She also had a vibrant mind, and would sit up with him well into the night as he considered his cases. John had enthusiastically thrown himself into casework again after the success of the first. The pursuit had divergent effects on his mood: on the one hand, immersing himself in a case allowed John respite from his grief, and his exhaustion upon completing a day’s work often precluded any possibility of having “the dream,” as he called it; however, John never felt Sherlock’s presence (and absence) more than when he was putting all the clues together, interrogating suspects, devising increasingly ridiculous disguises, which Mary enthusiastically helped him create (Mary, it turns out, like Sherlock, had a flair for the dramatic). It was healing and heartbreak all at once.

 

Three months after completing Mary’s case, seven months after Sherlock’s fall, John kissed Mary for the first time. He and Lestrade had just completed a major case together – an old case of Sherlock’s, actually; they’d had to prove that Sherlock’s original deductions were, in fact, correct to prevent a murderer from a successful appeal – and John finally felt like a human being again. Lestrade was working his way back up in the Yard, and public opinion was slowly turning back to Sherlock’s favor. John felt a pang that Sherlock would never see the press admit their wrongdoing, but at least hoped that Sherlock’s reputation might yet be saved. Mary had come over to celebrate, and John, swelling with _pridehopegriefrecoveryjoyattractionlove_ had grabbed her and kissed her as soon as she had crossed the threshold. Their “whirlwind romance,” as Lestrade liked to call it, swept them away from there.

 

Over the next several months, John buried himself in his work and in Mary. The cases were dangerous, hard, much harder than they would have been with – but there was no sense thinking about that; Mary was soft but strong, a solid, fixed point tethering him to sanity. John felt torn between two lives. The cases were difficult and dangerous, constantly keeping him on the knife’s edge, much like life with Sherlock had been. Mary, on the other hand, was all safety, comfort, and security, the assurance of a brighter future.

 

John could not seem to help comparing Mary to Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried, and God, did he try. Mary was gorgeous, and for whatever godforsaken reason she wanted to be with John. But Sherlock wouldn’t stop haunting him, no matter how many days went by, and John found himself wondering what Sherlock would think of Mary, how they would have gotten on if she had been just another girlfriend John brought back to Baker Street. Would he have found her unabashed sentiment and congenial nature annoying, or would he have been drawn to it, attracted to his opposite? Sherlock, even in his most emotional states, had remained unreachable, distant; Mary was open with her emotions, her life, her affections. Within two days of knowing her, even in the midst of her trying case, John already knew that Mary was an only child who had lost her mother at a young age, that her favorite color was blue and her favorite album was _Revolver_ and that she subsisted for an entire month at uni on pretty much nothing but crisps and cider. John realized with a pang that he would never know what happened to Sherlock’s father ( _not talking to Mycroft, not after, traitor_ ), or what his favorite color was, or who his favorite author had been. John had always found Sherlock’s mystique amusing ( _attractive_ ), but now he now felt nothing but regret that he hadn’t tried harder to learn everythingabout the brilliant bastard.

 

He tried to put it out of his mind. _Mary is my life now, Sherlock is **gone**_ **.** It was manageable, for the most part. Whenever he started to think of Sherlock ( _hishandshislaughhiseyes_ ), he would focus instead on the things he loved about Mary, of which there were many. He loved her laugh, a bright, full sound that bubbled up from deep in her chest. It didn’t hurt that she laughed at nearly all of his jokes, which had started to come much more freely the more time he spent in her company. John also loved Mary’s strength. She may not have been hard and cold like Sherlock, but she could be vicious when it came to defending the things – and people – she believed in. He had been deeply touched by how wholeheartedly she had thrown herself into the cause of clearing Sherlock’s name, an ongoing problem as time went by and people lost interest in the erstwhile Reichenbach hero. No matter what, though, that niggling doubt – _what if? ­_ – just wouldn’t leave John’s mind.

 

One of the most mortifying problems, John discovered, was that he couldn’t turn it off even in the bedroom. Not that Mary was a bore in bed: she was magnificent, much more adventurous than her gentle demeanour might let on. The first time they went to bed together, just one short day after their first kiss, John had been shocked by the force with which Mary threw him back on the bed. She had practically ripped the shirt from his chest, popping off several buttons in the process, with a wicked little smile on her face.

 

“God, you’ve been such a gentleman; I’ve been waiting for this for _ages_.”

 

John opened his mouth to respond, but could only let out a low groan as Mary’s hands ventured under the waistband of his pants and _Goddon’tstopwheredidmytrousersgo_? John, feeling somewhat ashamed, had to admit that he had been expecting missionary, under the covers with the lights off; what he got instead was Mary, topless but still wearing her skirt and heels, riding him with slowly undulating hips, her head thrown back, one hand in her hair and the other doing wicked things to John’s nipples. Seeing his open-mouthed awe, she had thrown him a saucy wink before pulling him up to her for a filthy, wet kiss. John held on to her for dear life, an apt description of most of their relationship.

 

Sex with Mary was ecstasy, far more intense than it had been with anyone previous; however, one night a few months into their relationship, staring down into Mary’s lovely face with her high, jutting cheekbones, he couldn’t help but wonder what _could have been_ with Sherlock. He had wasted so much time worrying about his sexuality ( _notacouplenotactuallygaynowe’renottogether_ ) that he had given up any chance to ask Sherlock what _he_ thought of their relationship. John was a doctor, for Christ’s sake – he knew enough about human biology to know that sexual attraction very rarely followed a strict set of rules. He had been undeniablyattracted to Sherlock, mind and body, and John deeply regretted that he let his own fear and insecurities keep them from discovering the full… _potential_ of their partnership. Would Sherlock have let John touch him, _fuck_ him? Or would it have been something deeper than that, something better, something that no trite phrases like “lovemaking” could hope to define? Would Sherlock have turned that sharp-eyed intensity onto John, studying his body like a case, deducing the best ways to take him apart and rebuild him? Or would he have let John take control, finally turning off his racing mind and trusting John entirely? John didn’t really have a point of reference. Just this: one kiss, stolen during their flight from 221B the night before the fall.

 

They were making their way to Riley’s, still handcuffed together. Sherlock wouldn’t explain why they were taking this risk instead of fleeing as far from London as possible, once again completely leaving John out of the loop. They were darting through back alleys and, occasionally, the sewers to stay out of sight. Just a few blocks from Riley’s flat, Sherlock was leaning out of an alley to scope out the street when he spotted a police car on patrol. It was shining a torch down each alleyway it passed, clearly searching for the fugitives. John felt his heart seize in panic; they would be caught and Sherlock would be imprisoned before he could prove his innoce-

 

_Rough wall against his back soft lips crashing desperately parting his lips a tongue forcefully mapping every inch of his palate the back of his teeth hand in his hair one on his hip bright light flashing, receding, need to breathe, ah, breathing’s boring, hands reaching up to grip Sherlock’s hai-_

Just as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. John was dazed, and it took him a minute to realize that Sherlock had jerked him back to the edge of the alley by the handcuffs and was peering after the departing patrol car. It had been a diversion, then: two men seeking a moment of privacy, snogging the life out of one another, not running from the police. But Sherlock had kissed him so passionately, so desperately, John couldn’t help but wonder –

 

“Come, now’s our chance. They may be back in a few minutes.”

 

That had been that. They ran across the street and into that blasted flat and everything unraveled from there. Whatever lingering glances John may have imagined from Sherlock over the course of that night mattered little now. All that mattered was the beautiful woman staring up at him with such light, _life,_ in her eyes. There was no small amount of concern there as well; John realized he had stopped rocking into her and was just staring, his erection going soft inside of her. Mary placed a hand against his face.

 

“It’s okay, love. I’m here, right here.”

 

And she was, she was _here_ , and Sherlock was gone. Had leftJohn alone without an adequate explanation ( _not a fraud, refuse to believe it, so why? God, why?_ ), left him to make his own way in the world, half of a whole that no longer existed. There was a time when John wanted to follow him, find out what sort of adventure was awaiting him on the other side ( _Take my hand!_ ), but John was a soldier; he wouldn’t give up without a fight. He had pressed on, and he had found this, this woman – this beautiful, angelic creature who loved action movies and the Beatles and wanted to have a whole pack of children and move to the country and loved hearing all of John’s ridiculous exploits with Sherlock and who _loved_ John, it was right there in her face –

 

“Are you still with me?”

 

John brushed her sweaty hair away from her forehead and smiled softly.

 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

 

He almost believed it; he decided that it would have to be good enough. From that point on, John dedicated himself to being the best possible boyfriend he could be to Mary. He listened to all of her stories, drinking in every detail, noting all of her likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams. He bought her flowers on the way home from the surgery on a regular basis to let her know he’d been thinking of her, lilies, her favorite. He had given up on solving any more cases, left that up to Lestrade. John hoped getting away from the constant reminders of Sherlock would help him to focus more of his attention on Mary. It mostly worked, and if he sometimes wished that it was Sherlock standing beside him in the video store, laughing at the stupid romantic comedy title - or Sherlock leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a mug of tea while John cooked pasta, or Sherlock panting under him, John buried to the hilt inside of him, begging for more – John reasoned that Mary would never know, because he loved her very much and would do everything in his power to show her that.

 

If Mary noticed that, whenever she mentioned Sherlock, or asked to hear another story about one of their cases, John’s expression turned stony, his stance slightly defensive, she never said anything. Nor did she remark on John’s nightmares, less frequent now, when he gasped Sherlock’s name in broken sobs until she took him in her arms, rocking him gently awake. And if she sometimes saw the faraway look in his eye as they were making love, as if he were seeing a different face than her own, she remained silent. Because Mary loved John Watson very much as well. She loved all of him, including the half that she knew was buried under a headstone marked _Sherlock Holmes_.

 

And so, nine months into their relationship, one year after the fall of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson asked Mary Morstan to be his wife. It was unexpected, for both of them: one moment Mary was tentatively suggesting they go visit Sherlock’s grave, lay out some nice flowers; the next John was walking back through the door he had slammed in her face an hour before, falling to his knees with his face buried in her skirt _begging_ “I’m sorry, _please_ don’t give up on me, don’t leave me, marry me, marry me, I can’t live without you.” Mary had laid her hand on the top of his head, comforting, and only hesitated a moment before whispering, “Yes.”

 

Mary didn’t bring up Sherlock after that; John’s nightmares had been worse than ever that night. Instead, they got straight to planning the wedding and their future life. It was a small affair, only taking six short months to plan. Mary didn’t really have any family, just a couple of cousins from the North, and a few close friends from work who would have killed her had they not been invited. John really only had Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Lestrade, and Molly. Mary bought a simple, elegant gown, and John planned on wearing an old tux he kept around for rare, fancy occasions. John found himself, surprisingly, thinking about Sherlock less and less throughout the process. The joyful prospect of a life with Mary crowded out much of his remaining melancholy, and he was genuinely excited to begin a _new_ , if less dangerous,adventure with her. So, even though small and somewhat plain, the wedding was a happy one. John did note, upon reflection, that Molly seemed to have an air of distressed misery about her. But he wrote it off: he was, after all, not the only one who had loved Sherlock Holmes.

 

Memories of Sherlock still haunted John on occasion, most notably during the move out of Baker Street, but he was settling comfortably into married life. Mary made sure he was never bored: she remained as…agile as ever in bed, and forced him to take on cases with Lestrade every so often so that he could get his “adrenaline fix,” as she liked to call it. She loved going to sporting events, going to game nights, going dancing, flitting about at parties; she was a bright beacon of light in John’s dreary existence. Occasionally, Mary would drag John along with her, and he found, much to his chagrin, that he enjoyed every experience ( _How could he not? Look how happy she is_ ). They bickered over what color to paint the bedroom, and about the hideous armchair by the sitting room window, and about whether or not “Gladstone” was a legitimate name for a pet (John, obviously, lost every argument). It was nice, more than nice: it was everything a man could ever hope for.

 

John was happy, for the most part. There was just one more thing he had to do.

 

He now found himself standing in front of a familiar headstone, only seen once before ( _I was so alone, and I owe you so much_ ). Mary stood stalwartly by his side, her hand gripping his tightly ( _Or is it the other way round?_ ). John had thought this moment would be difficult, that the entire jumble of emotions, memories, fears would form such a tangled mess that it would catch on his tongue before he could articulate them. Sherlock’s last words, his very last words, had been, simply, “ _Goodbye, John._ ” He had never given John the chance to respond. The few sentiments he had managed to share on his last visit – _begging, pleading, one more miracle pleasepleaseplease_  - had felt like acid, barely managing to burn its way out of his throat. Now, he found that there was only one word he really wanted ( _needed_ ) to say. Squeezing Mary’s hand, he stepped forward, gently touched the headstone, and, echoing the last words of his dead ( _deceasedgoneaway **dead**_ ) best friend, said simply, finally:

 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

 

John turned to face Mary, one tear escaping the well in his eyes. She gently wiped it away with her free hand and gave him a small, watery but encouraging smile. Nodding slightly, John put his arm around her and began steering her back towards the taxi. He didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have seen a tall, dark-haired figure standing across the cemetery, looking on forlornly as his best friend ( _could have been so much more_ ) finally walked away from him for good.


	3. You're my head and you're my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the first six months of John and Mary’s marriage had been a bit awkward, haunted constantly by the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, the last six had been damn near perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any mistakes are mine. Story and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

John stared hatefully at Gladstone, who sat in the midst of a small pile of torn wrapping paper and gift box bits. The dog stared defiantly back at John with his doleful eyes, tail thunking against the floor in a steady rhythm. They made quite a tableau: John on his knees, holding tufts of fur and saliva-covered ribbon in his hands, staring down the tiny beast, his mouth agape in shock.

 

_The little bastard actually **ate** it. A diamond ring. Over £500, and it’s making its way through the digestive tract of a damned bulldog._

The faint scent of burnt soufflé reached John’s nostrils; as if on cue, the trill of the smoke alarm began to beep frantically from the kitchen. John distantly supposed he should panic, but he just sighed in resignation before slowly making his way to face the mess undoubtedly waiting for him in the oven…

 

…where, at the threshold to the kitchen, he tripped over one of Gladstone’s toys, accidentally grabbed the tablecloth for balance, and pulled the place settings, vase of roses, and expensive bottle of merlot down to the floor. He would have thought that the day could not get any worse, but that would have been the third time such a thought had crossed his mind in one evening, and John had finally learned his lesson about tempting fate. The bottle of wine, still intact, rolled slowly across the floor away from him and the chaos of shattered china.

 _Well, at least we can still get drunk_.

It was _supposed_ to be John and Mary’s first anniversary; it was _supposed_ to be perfect. John had been planning the occasion for nearly a month. He negotiated two days off at the surgery, the day of their anniversary, to prepare, and the day after, to recover, assuming everything went well. He took a damn cooking class, for Christ’s sake, so that he could cook for Mary for a change – something more impressive than his signature dish of pasta from a bag and canned tomato sauce. And then there was the ring.

 

John and Mary had planned their wedding so quickly that they hadn’t had the time to shop for engagement rings; all she wore on her finger currently was a simple, white gold wedding band ( _It’s beautiful, John, and it serves its purpose; I have all I need in you_ ). Mary may have been happy with the understated symbol of their union, but John knew that she _deserved_ better. For that reason, he resolved, for their anniversary, to give her a properwedding ring; he ordered it two months before the date from a specialty online shop that independently certified its conflict-free diamonds (an issue of great importance to Mary). He knew she would absolutely love it: two white gold bands intertwined in a sort of braid, and four small sapphires ( _to match her eyes_ ) inlaid at the top, in the gaps between the two bands. Not flashy or gaudy, but beautiful and tasteful.

 

 _Just like the woman it’s intended for_ , John had thought as he clicked through the final step and submitted the order. He knew Mary would cringe at the cost, but he knew they could manage it in the long run, and Mary was worth it. She had practically brought him back to life; the least he could do was show her what it meant to him.

 

If the first six months of John and Mary’s marriage had been a bit awkward, haunted constantly by the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, the last six had been damn near perfect. John still missed his best friend, of course, but saying goodbye at the cemetery six months ago had changed something within John. He had acknowledged Sherlock’s passing and finally _grieved_ , really and truly, instead of constantly wishing for a miracle he knew would never come; that grief, in turn, had led to some level of acceptance. John Watson had made peace with all that he’d lost with Sherlock, and was able to fully appreciate what he had gained in meeting Mary.

 

What he appreciated most was Mary’s positivity: whenever he had a bad day at the surgery, Mary would make him laugh with some anecdote about her students, or by making up silly songs about their activities or, more often, Gladstone ( _“Stupid mutt.” “John, be nice. You know you love him” “…I’ll never admit it aloud”_ ). Mary also knew weeks before it actually happened that Lestrade would successfully clear Sherlock’s name, even when John was plagued by doubt. Lestrade, his reputation mostly restored by a successful case history, finally convinced the Chief Superintendent that they needed to take another look at Sherlock’s mobile phone. It had been discovered, badly damaged, on Bart’s rooftop after his suicide. It took the forensics team a long while to recover all the data, and John had mostly given up hope; whenever Lestrade would come by to let him know that _sorry, we’re still trying to sort through all of the information, it’s very nearly destroyed, it’s a long shot_ , John would become furious, railing against Donovan and Anderson, for believing Moriarty’s lies, or the chief, for refusing to investigate the suicide any further immediately after the fact, or Lestrade, for not trying hard enough when Sherlock was still alive, because what did any of this really matter now? On those nights, Mary would hold him close while he cried, whispering reassurances in his ear.

 

When the forensics team finally _did_ manage to discover the recording on the phone, Mary smiled triumphantly at the news. Moriarty’s confession, which ended abruptly with a loud burst of static ( _gunshot? no, no body…what then?_ ) and gave no clue to the man’s location, was a confession nonetheless, and Mary happily set herself to the task of helping John distribute flyers, press releases, and blog entries letting everyone know the truth about Sherlock Holmes. They even had a bit of fun with it, proving everybody wrong, spreading tales of Sherlock’s heroism; Sherlock was no longer a subject that haunted them, but one that united them. It still pained John that Sherlock wasn’t around to see the success of the investigation, but Mary’s bright, if somewhat vindictive, laughter as she sifted through the apologetic comments on John’s blog cheered him considerably. It was always hard to brood in her company.

 

Mary was delightful, and she brought out the best in John. He smiled more when he was with her, was more willing to try new things, have new adventures. It may not have been the danger and intrigue he’d come to love with Sherlock, but it certainly wasn’t boring. John would never forget the shocked giggles ( _no other word for it_ ) Mary had inspired when she snuck behind the bar at a hip club in central London and stole a rather expensive bottle of whisky, grabbing John’s hand and yanking him out the door before he could protest. The bartender had said John looked “a bit old” to be with such a “fine young thing,” and would she like to know what it’s like with a _real_ man? John was ready to shrug it off; he had learned to ignore most remarks about their age difference, but Mary was having none of it. That night John had shown her just how _young_ he could be, and they had laughed breathlessly like teenagers as they tumbled to the floor ( _“Bed?” “Too far!” then giggling, sighing, skin on skin, oh!_ ).

 

John liked to think he was good to Mary, as well. He made an effort to get on with all of her friends, and carefully noted all of the important dates pertaining to their relationship on his calendar. John’s expertise as a doctor also came in handy on occasion; Mary had a tendency to get awful migraines. He would bring her a glass of water and the strongest (legal) medication he could manage before lying with her in the dark, gently massaging her temples until she felt better. John wasn’t much of a talker, and his sense of humor may have been a bit drier than Mary’s, but he felt that they truly complemented one another. He loved listening to all of Mary’s stories and accompanying her to her myriad social events, and she loved spending quiet evenings with John after her hectic work week, getting lost in just the two of them, together and content.

 

That’s not to say that their life was perfect; no one’sis, after all. Sometimes John did get bored, or miss Sherlock desperately, and he had an unfortunate tendency to take it out on her. When he became snappish, or inordinately irritable, Mary would come home from school late ( _Twenty minutes precisely, John; she obviously must’ve stopped off at the Ya-)_ and slap a case file from Lestrade onto the coffee table in front of him without a word. He would inevitably apologize once the case was over, his tension relieved, and she would begrudgingly forgive him, although she always remained angry for a few days afterward.

 

The same was true when they bickered over more typical marital trifles. He remembers one massive row about the old armchair they had bought when they first got married, of all things. John was pretty sure it had started about something more important, but he could not for the life of him remember what it was. He did, however, remember shouting about how ugly the damn thing was ( _It’s pastel yellow and covered in little purple flowers, Mary! Why would any self-respecting man ever want to sit in a bloody pastel chair covered in little. purple. flowers?!)_ , and Mary had immediately switched off, storming out of the flat without another word. John immediately regretted his tone, if not the words themselves; the armchair truly was atrocious, but Mary was far more important than any stupid piece of furniture. If it really meant that much to her, he would learn to live with it. He resolved to tell her so as soon as she got home, but Mary didn’t return to the flat until well after John had gone to bed. She was also gone in the morning before John woke up. He worried about it all day at work, until he came home to find Mary struggling to push the blasted chair down the front steps to the kerb on her own, setting it out amongst the bins waiting for pick-up. She must have heard him approaching, because she paused in her efforts and met his astonished gaze.

 

“If you hate it, I hate it. It’s just a stupid chair.”

 

John had laughed at that, prompting a frightful glare from Mary. In the end, they had compromised; Mary kept her armchair in the bedroom by the window, for her reading, and John bought a more gender-neutral piece for the living room, where he preferred to work. She had still remained angry about it for several days; John could tell, mainly because of the way she still mysteriously disappeared in the morning for work, well before their alarm, and the way she bit out “I’m _fine_ ” whenever he tried to bring it up. After a few days, though, John found her at the flat waiting for him after a long day at the surgery, excited to tell him the story of a prank she had successfully played on a particularly irritating fellow teacher. That’s the way it always was; after any fight Mary needed a few days to sulk until something broke the tension and restored her cheerful mood (she was not unlike Sherlock in this regard; he couldn’t help but compare them still, on occasion, but with more positive associations). Usually it was something cute Gladstone did that she couldn’t wait to tell John…

 

Speaking of the mangy brute. John glared at him as he crawled across the floor to retrieve the bottle of Merlot. Smoke was pouring out of the oven, floating in a haze near the ceiling. He was pulling himself slowly, painfully to his feet when he heard the key turn in the front lock. Mary stepped into the flat, mumbled a brief curse, and rushed to the kitchen. She paused at the doorway and surveyed the scene in front of her – the blaring smoke alarm, the shattered dishes, the spilled vase, the burgeoning smog of smoke, Gladstone in a sea of ripped paper, John wincing, struggling to become upright – with a curiously blank expression.

 

“Happy anniversary,” John deadpanned.

 

Mary laughed harder than John had ever seen before. She put a hand on the doorframe to brace herself, bent in half with the force of her mirth. John couldn’t help but join in.

 

She met his eyes, her own full of amused sympathy and leaking tears at the corners. “You sort out this mess, I’ll order a takeaway?”

 

John offered a relieved smile. A few hours later, they sat curled together on the sofa, bellies full of curry, a DVD in the player that neither of them was really watching. John was alternating staring thoughtfully at the new laptop that Mary had bought for him and glaring forcefully at Gladstone, who chewed his bone in oblivious contentment.

 

“I bought you a ring, you know.”

 

Mary turned slightly to face him, followed his gaze to the dog. “Oh dear, is that what he…?”

 

John smirked. “You can still have it, in a few days. Just don’t forget the plastic baggie when you take him for his walks.”

 

“Ewww, hey!” She swatted him on the arm, prompting an epic tickle battle that somehow led them back to the bedroom. John, before turning his focus entirely to more pleasant occupations, registered a smug satisfaction at the sound of Gladstone pawing despondently on the other side of the closed door.

 

A few days later, Mary blushed demurely when a coworker complimented her on her lovely new wedding ring.

 

-*-

 

Two months later, John and Mary found themselves staring at somebody else’s diamond ring, leaning back a bit as it was waved excitedly under their noses. Lestrade placed his arm around Molly’s waist, pulling her back a bit out of John and Mary’s personal space.

 

“I think they can see it fine from here, darling,” Lestrade laughed good-naturedly.

 

“Oh, yes; sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just so ecstatic…excited…overwhelmed! And…a bit drunk, I think.” Molly’s lovely face twisted momentarily in confusion before she laughed brightly, skittering off to show her ring to another guest.

 

John and Mary had arrived at the party late; Mary was having one of her headaches again, but she refused to miss out on Molly Hooper’s engagement soiree ( _She was so kind and helpful at our wedding, John. I’ll manage._ ). It had come as a shock when Lestrade had announced their forthcoming union, although, in retrospect, John should have noticed the smoldering looks they had been shooting each other in the mortuary during many, decidedly unsexy cases ( _As always you see, but do not observe_ ). John had certainly never seen Molly or Greg happier, and, with a bittersweet, wistful smile, he realized he was glad that Molly had also finally managed to move on.

 

Mary winced at the bright, fluorescent lights and the loud dance music in the rented meeting room, moving to sit down at one of the round tables set around the edge of a makeshift dance floor. John, concerned, moved to follow her, when Greg clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“John, I was wondering if I might have a quick word with you.”

 

John reluctantly turned his attention from his wife, smiling warmly at his friend. “Yes, Greg, of course, you’re the man of the hour, after all.”

 

“Hardly, this is all about her, really; she deserves a big party like this, after being shut up all alone in that smelly lab all day, every day solving my cases. I did want to ask you, though, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I mean –” Greg sighed. “I know we haven’t got on perfectly the last couple of years, but after everything that has happened, you’re the closest thing to a best mate I’ve got, and I would like it if, what I mean to say is, I would be honored if…”

 

John couldn’t bear it anymore; he put Greg out of his misery. “Yes, Greg, I’d love to be your best man.”

 

Lestrade beamed unsteadily at him; Molly wasn’t the only one a bit sloshed tonight, it would appear. “That’s great, John. Really, really great. Speaking of weddings, how has married life been treating you? She still perfect as ever?”

 

John looked over at Mary, who was holding herself together remarkably well in spite of the headache, valiantly attempting to listen to a happily chattering Molly with a genuine, if strained, smile on her face. Mary met John’s eyes and her features softened, even if she still looked slightly wan. He thought of everything he had gone through with her in the past year.

 

“I’m happier than I ever thought I could be.”

 

Greg looked towards the two women as well, his grin broadening even further, if possible. “Yeah, we certainly are a couple of lucky bastards, aren’t we?”

 

Molly followed Mary’s gaze over to the two men, waving enthusiastically. She jumped up, grabbing Mary’s hand and making their way over, clearly intending to rope John and Greg into the conversation. She was practically skipping across the floor, pulling Mary behind her, when the pair suddenly jerked to a stop. Molly frowned and looked back at Mary; Mary looked at John in abject horror for a brief moment.

 

Then she collapsed violently to the floor.

 

Everything slowed to a standstill. Distantly John could hear Molly’s panicked voice calling for help; he vaguely realized that he and Lestrade were rushing forward, but he felt completely disconnected from his body. Some detached, clinical part of him – perhaps it was the doctor – noted that Mary was having some sort of seizure. John Watson the man, bereaved friend of Sherlock Holmes, devoted husband to Mary Watson, only really registered one thing.

 

For the second time in three years, John was helplessly watching the love of his life fall, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.


	4. I'd do anything to make you stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, the universe, fate, or whatever had made it perfectly clear what it thought of John Watson. It had done its utmost to break him, and it had finally succeeded. He was ready to raise the white flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any mistakes are mine. Story and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

_It’s 3:30 AM_. John was standing in a nondescript hospital waiting room, not comprehending what the surgeon was telling him. _Mary will be so tired at school tomorrow_.

 

He was trying to listen to the other doctor, but nothing was getting through ( _can’t be, won’t hear it, NO_ ). Instead his mind drifted back to the day Lestrade finally cleared Sherlock’s name. He and Mary had a conversation then that somehow seemed important now, something that would help him make sense of everything.

 

_What was it? Remember…_

****

-*-

 

Lestrade had called to tell them the great news, promised to stop by soon to discuss it in person. The recording on Sherlock’s phone had been verified by every means possible: it was definitely Moriarty speaking, and he was definitely responsible for all of the crimes, not Sherlock. The Yard was opening a new investigation to hunt the maniac down. Then Lestrade hesitated, had difficulty sharing the next bit. He related the whole story behind Sherlock’s jump. Three gunmen, one for each of Sherlock’s friends; Sherlock had thought of John first. The news hit John like a punch to the gut.

 

“He…he died to save us?” _Friends protect people._

  
Mary reached for his hand and gripped it tightly.

 

Lestrade’s voice on the other end of the line was quiet, croaky. “Yeah…I guess we _all_ misjudged him, in the end.” The statement would have decimated John if Mary hadn’t been standing there beside him, grounding him with her presence. How had he _missed_ this? How had he not _deduced_ the truth on his own? He felt like he’d let Sherlock down somehow, realizing that ( _guilt_ ) Sherlock had not let him down first.

 

Greg said his goodbyes. John held his phone in front of him for several seconds afterward, watched the call disconnect. He couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling. _Relief pride anger **guilt** joy hate, Sherlock, you brave, stupid bastard _ –

 

“Darling?”

 

Mary’s voice shook him out of his reverie. Suddenly, he knew exactly what this feeling was.

 

Love. This was love, with all of its pain and imperfection. Love and heartbreak.

John had loved Sherlock, and, it turns out, Sherlock had loved John. Because of that love, Sherlock was dead and John was alive. And because John was alive, he had Mary. Mary, with her unwavering faith and loyalty; with her silly songs and epic sulks; Mary, with her unconditional love for John, before John had been able to give the same in return.

 

He wrapped his hand around the back of her slender neck and pulled her in for a desperate kiss. He tried to pour everything he was feeling into it: gratitude, grief, _love_. Mary surrendered herself to John’s raging emotions. She allowed him to roughly lift her up and carry her to the bedroom, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist. She didn’t protest when he threw her on the bed, frantically ripped the clothes from her body. John only got so far as removing his own shirt and unbuttoning his trousers before he was slamming into her. It had to hurt; still, she didn’t say a word. He hid his face in the elegant curve of her neck and held Mary in an iron grip as he urgently rocked into her. One of Mary’s hands stroked soothingly through John’s hair, the other braced on the headboard against the powerful force of his thrusts.

 

“I love you, I’m here, It’s alright.”

 

At those words, John released himself with a half-sob, half-moan. For a moment he just lay there catching his breath, still buried in her slick heat. With some shame, he realized that Mary had not come with him. He quickly pulled out and reached down to finish her when she stilled his hand.

 

“Later, if you want. That’s not what this is about. For now just let go, John. It’s okay.”

 

John did let go, head resting on Mary’s bosom while he sobbed like a child.

 

-*-

 

“Doctor Watson? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

 

_No, not yet, doesn’t make sense, remember, remember, **remember**_ **.**

-*-

 

They spent most of that day in bed. There were people to call, wrongs to right, scores to settle; they could wait. Right now John just wanted to lie beside his wife and process his feelings. Sherlock would be ashamed of the sentiment.

 

_Or would he?_

“I should have known.”

 

“It went against everything you knew about the man.”

 

 _Frustration_. “Then I should have paid more attention.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes was excellent at tricking people, you’ve said so yourself on many occasions.”

 

 _Irritated, angry_. “Well he shouldn’t have tricked _me_! I could have helped, I _would_ have helped.”

 

Mary hesitated. Her hands paused their soothing up and down motion on John’s back.

 

“Maybe you helping was too dangerous. Maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of putting you in harm’s way, of possibly losing you.”

 

 _Angrier_. “I’m a soldier for Christ’s sake, Mary, and he knew that. And how selfish would that be? What about my loss, eh? Does that count for nothing in his brilliant calculations?”

 

John was up now, pacing, hands gesticulating wildly. Mary was sitting up with the sheet pooled around her waist, watching John steadily.

 

“He must have decided you could more easily live without him than the other way ‘round. That you would be better at moving on.”

 

John sneered, “Or maybe he was a selfish twat who decided to take the fucking path of least resistance.”

 

“Or he just loved you too much to see any alternative.”

 

John froze and, shocked, finally met Mary’s eyes. In them he saw warmth, sadness, understanding. In all of the stories he had told Mary about his and Sherlock’s life together, John had resolutely left out the “L” word.

 

“I know, had I been in his position, I would have done the exact same thing. You loved him,” John opened his mouth to protest. “– don’t, give me some credit, please. I know you did, I’m not blind. What would _you_ have done, if there was no other way out, if it was his life was on the line. What would you do if it were me?”

 

John sagged, defeated. He knew with absolute certainty that if a sniper were trained on Mary or Sherlock, if there was no other way to save them, he would have done anything Moriarty had told him to do. Sherlock must have truly had no other options; John trusted him enough to know that if Sherlock had deduced any way around it, he would have told him. He certainly would have let John in on the plan from the beginning if he’d seen it coming. They were a team, after all. _I’d be lost without my blogger_. He sat down on the bed next to Mary and dropped his head to his hands.

 

“I don’t know what to do now. I’m still so angry, but I owe him so much.”

 

Mary wrapped her arms around him. “We tell the world, wasn’t that always the plan?”

 

John laughed darkly. His tears had slowed, but a few stragglers were still making their way down his cheeks. He roughly wiped them away. “Well, yeah, of course there’s that. But he’ll never see how much it meant to me. He’ll never know how sorry I am that I’ve believed, for over two years, that he just abandoned me for no reason.” More quietly, “That I didn’t trust him.”

 

“Let’s stop by the headstone again,” John raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t look at me like that; you know it helped the last time. You can tell him how you feel, leave flowers, roses even, if you want.”

 

John would have glared at that last but he could tell his wife was completely serious. “It’s amazing how supportive you are in all this. Really, it is. But Sherlock never believed in an afterlife, and after all that I’ve seen in this world, neither do I. I would essentially be talking to an empty hole in the ground.” He smiled wryly, signaling that he wished to change the subject. “Besides, I can only engage in so many weepy, symbolic gestures a year, and we agreed that’s what the anniversary is for.”

 

Mary sighed in resignation; God, heaven, religion in general were contentious subjects best avoided in their marriage, she had learned. Sherlock had only recently made it off the blacklist. “What do you want to do, then? What would make _you_ feel better? How can I help?”

 

His lips quirked in a small, sad smile. “We can get to work letting all those tossers in the press know how completely, moronically, unbelievably wrong they were. If I can’t have closure, at least I can have some revenge. If you don’t mind helping in such vindictive pursuits.”

 

Mary’s eyes turned hard as stone. “I’ll go grab the computer.”

 

The sat side by side the rest of the evening writing angry letters, creating ridiculous ( _but satisfying_ ) tumblr memes, and inundating the internet with new “Believe in Sherlock” blogs ( _nobody will forget what he’s done, what they’ve done to him_ ). The work was darkly satisfying and did much to improve John’s mood. Late into the night, Mary cleared her throat quietly from her seat in the revolting armchair. Then, in a mischievous tone,

 

“So you’ll give me flowers because it’s the 2 month-iversary of our first major fight, but you won’t bring flowers to my grave when I’m dead and gone?”

 

John glared at her, but there was no real heat in it; he ignored how his heart clenched at the vaguest thought of losing her. “Mary, you are twelve years younger than me, exercise ten times as much as I do, and eat healthier than a fitness instructor. If _I’m_ the one visiting _your_ grave, then the universe is completely unfair.”

 

Mary had just laughed, coming over to kiss him playfully on the cheek. “Well, then, I’ll put an entire garden on your grave, you giant prat, just to spite you.”

 

-*-

 

_Oh._

John was jerked back to the present. Scenes from the night rushed so quickly behind his retinas that he felt vertigo: Mary on the floor of Molly’s party, unresponsive. Mary in an ambulance, unresponsive. Six hours spent in a Royal London Hospital waiting room, _waiting_. Currently: harsh fluorescent lighting attacking his eyes. Molly crying, clinging to Lestrade who’s pretending that he’s not. A surgeon standing in front of John giving him impossible news.

“Doctor Watson, as her husband you have power of attorney in this case. I need to know that you understand the gravity of what I’m telling you.”

 

All of the doctor’s previous nonsense was suddenly crystal clear. Ruptured cerebral aneurysm, probably congenital, usually very few warning signs ( _John, the light is so bright, could you please turn it off?_ ). Extensive bleeding. Irreparable damage to the left temporal, occipital, and parietal lobes. EEG shows little brain activity: braindead. Will not recover.

 

John understood perfectly: the universe was not only unfair, it was a complete and utter fucking _asshole_.

 

-*-

 

When Sherlock had died, John had found himself lost in a sea of emotions he could not properly categorize. Regret, anger, pain, heartache, and overwhelming loss.

 

Sitting next to Mary’s motionless body, pale and lifeless and plugged full of tubes connected to beeping machinery, he just felt numb. There was absolutely nothing left inside of him; whatever Mary had resurrected after Sherlock died with her.

 

Of course Mary wasn’t quite dead yet, not technically. Her heart was still beating as her chest rose rhythmically up and down with the respirator. But John was an excellent doctor, and he couldn’t ignore the truth: Mary was gone. He had looked at the brain scans with a sense of almost clinical detachment, personally gone over all of her charts, searching meticulously for anything the surgeons and specialists had missed. There was nothing. This body in front of him was no longer his wife. It was an empty casing of flesh and bone, kept fresh by the miracle of modern science until John made a final decision.

 

The right choice was clear: Mary’s Living Will made her wishes completely unambiguous. She had no desire to live on in perpetuity if her brain ( _soul_ ), everything that made her _Mary_ , was gone. As a doctor, John knew they had reached that point. It was time to pull the plug.

 

If he could find the will to move or speak, he would let the medical staff know. He wasn’t trying very hard, to be honest.

 

 _Just a few more hours_.

 

John brushed back a few strands of brown hair that had fallen over Mary’s face. _She hated that hair; said it was the worst decision she ever made, couldn’t wait for the blonde to grow back in._ John hadn’t really cared one way or another when she’d dyed it. Now, he thought he might hate it too if he could muster up the energy. The unfamiliar colour set against the pallor of her skin, the hollowed out space beneath her high, sharp cheekbones, her deathly stillness and closed, unblinking eyes – with all of this it was hard to sustain the fiction that this was still Mary, that they still had more time.

 

_More time. We barely had any time at all._

 

For a moment John selfishly wished he had never gone to medical school. That he couldn’t make sense of the charts and flashing LCD screens in the room. He wished he believed in God, or heaven, or miracles. But he knew better. This was the final proof.

 

At 6:38 AM, nearly 10 hours after Mary first collapsed, John gave the authorization to terminate life support. He filled out all of the proper paperwork to donate Mary’s organs like a responsible doctor would. He stood in the room as the medical staff made all of the final preparations. John knew, in his head, that it had all truthfully ended hours ago. As a medical man, he knew there was no real sense remaining with Mary in her final moments, offering any last words of farewell.

 

He held her hand until the end anyway. And as her heartbeat faded, and her final breaths stuttered out of her chest, he whispered in her ear:

 

“I’ll bring you flowers every day, I promise.”

 

-*-

 

John spent the next few months going through the basic motions of having a life, although it felt very little like actual living as he’d once known it. He ate whatever Mrs. Hudson fed him, chatted politely with Molly and Greg when they came by to visit ( _check up on me_ ). He had quit his job at the surgery, though. Just couldn’t be bothered. Sometimes he idly wondered how Mrs. Hudson could afford to put him up at Baker Street with no rent coming in. He figured it was Mycroft, still repenting for the role he’d played in Sherlock’s demise ( _like the suspiciously large donation to our bank account shortly after the wedding_ ). John found it funny; surely Mycroft didn’t think he cared about that anymore.

 

John Watson didn’t care about much of anything anymore.

 

Moving him back into 221B, the suicide watch ( _call it like it is_ ), it was all their idea: Molly’s, Greg’s, Mrs. Hudson’s, possibly Mycroft’s. They had even taken away his pistol. Sherlock would have been amused. _Man can barely move to pour himself a cup of tea and you honestly think he’s going to go the trouble of loading a gun and sticking it in his mouth? Come, now. Are you all really this oblivious, or are you just having me on?_ John would have smiled at the thought, if moving his face didn’t take such a concentrated effort.

 

He had been like this since the moment Mary’s heart monitor had emitted that final, unending drone. At the funeral he had remained silent, leaving it to her few family members, longtime friends and colleagues to deliver the eulogy. John had no desire to stand in front of a room full of mostly strangers, pouring out his heart and soul for their benefit. He didn’t care what they thought of him. He didn’t want to sit in this room with these people and remember all of the good times he and Mary had together ( _stealing whisky snogging in a cab running from the cops fucking making love laughing giggling fighting Gladstone for a package sifting for a ring in a pile of dog shit_ ). Mary wasn’t there to hear it, and even if she had been right and was currently palling around with Sherlock in some ridiculous palace in the sky, she already knew how he felt anyway. All John wanted was more time with her, and he was never going to get that. He knew from grieving Sherlock that asking for a miracle was useless. If he couldn’t have that, what was the point of wanting anything at all?

 

So he moved back into Baker Street where Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on him, since it didn’t matter to him either way. Aside from Gladstone, the only thing he moved over from his and Mary’s place was her ugly old armchair. He set it across from Sherlock’s sleek, modern one, still in the sitting room collecting dust. Mary’s soon built up a layer of its own. John always sat on the divan, staring at them, silently acknowledging the absence in the room.

 

Three years, two loves lost. There are only two halves in a whole, so what’s left?

 

John quickly developed a routine. Routines were easy, required a minimal amount of work. He woke up every morning to a knock on the door from Mrs. Hudson. Slowly, mechanically, he showered and dressed before having his morning cuppa. Then he sat on the divan and stared at the empty armchairs until lunch. Greg and Molly often joined him for his afternoon meal and updated him on the wedding plans, chattering away a little too breezily, with smiles a little too bright to be genuine. He smiled politely and nodded, though he assumed from their winces that it came across as more of a grimace. John offered reassurances regarding his wellbeing, asked questions at the appropriate moments, inquired after his duties as best man. He was never entirely aware of his exact words; fortunately, some involuntary reflex of social graces seemed to take over for him in these instances. He didn’t suppose for a moment that it was enough to fool any of them, but it was enough to get them to leave him alone.

 

He hadn’t seen Harry since the funeral. He knew she was drinking again. Ultimately, he was just glad that it was one less person to convince that he was okay.

 

After lunch every day, John remained true to his word: he visited Mary’s headstone with a dozen roses. If Mycroft was going to throw money at him, he might as well spend it lavishly. He never said a word, not really believing that there was anybody there to hear him. But just in case he was wrong, he made the trip daily. He would never break a promise to Mary. He brought Gladstone with him for good measure; Mary had always loved that dog.

 

Gladstone was about the only meaningful contact he had in his life. Everyone was a bit surprised when John brought him to 221B, knowing that Gladstone had been Mary’s and that he and John had always had a tenuous relationship at best. They saw Gladstone much as John had always done, as “just a dog.”   
They didn’t understand that dog and man were united in a shared, profound loss.

 

After all was said and done at the hospital, John had gone straight home, ready to curl up in his and Mary’s bed ( _still smelled like her_ ) and sleep for days. Gladstone startled him at the door: he had honestly forgotten about the beast’s existence. John shoved him out of the way none too gently with his foot, moving around him to head into the flat, uncaring what mess the mongrel might make while John slept. But Gladstone wouldn’t let him close the door. He’d plopped his butt down right in the doorway, alternating between looking accusingly at John and searching the space outside for any sign of his mistress.

 

“Shove off, Gladstone, you’re in the way,” John murmured tiredly.

 

Gladstone looked at him like he couldn’t _possibly_ be serious. He turned his back to John and huffed an indignant sigh, settling his bottom more firmly into the floor. John began to get irritated.

 

“There’s nobody else coming, stupid hound. Look? See anyone? No? Get inside.”

 

John’s tone made the dog nervous. He shuffled his feet and let out a helpless whine, peering once more into the cheerful ( _hateful_ ) daylight. His look when he turned back to John was questioning; if John were more sentimental, he might even say it was fearful.

 

John snapped.

 

“She’s not coming back, alright, you fucking annoying little shit! She’s gone, dead; she left us both and SHE’S NEVER. COMING. BACK!!!!”

 

The words echoed through the entryway. They reverberated in John’s chest, rang in his own ears.

 

_She’s never coming back; **they’re** never coming back._

It was the only time John had cried after Mary’s death. He collapsed against the wall as the heaving sobs wracked his tired frame, sliding to the floor as his legs gave out, unable to support him any longer. He pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, as if he could somehow erase everything he’d seen in the past twenty-four hours. It was too much; his ribs pressed tightly against his lungs, he struggled for each breath as he choked out his anguish.

 

“She’s never coming back…never coming back…”

 

Suddenly he felt a solid, heavy weight in his lap. Large paws came to rest on his forearms; he could feel a cold wet nose pressing into the backs of his hands, a warm tongue licking at him frantically. John lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Gladstone, who had always loathed John, resented John’s closeness to Mary and done everything in his power to sabotage every single date night, was wriggling and whining desperately, clearly upset by John’s distress and doing his utmost to comfort him. John slowly wrapped his arms around the dog, who allowed John to bury his face in his fur and remained still as John cried himself to sleep. Gladstone stood watch at the open door until John awoke several hours later, lying in a heap on the floor. They had been inseparable ever since.

 

Gladstone slept in John’s bed every night, and lay at his feet at the foot of the sofa every day. The loyal bulldog would sit patiently next to John in front of Mary’s headstone until John was ready to leave. Sometimes he just dropped off the flowers, simply fulfilling his last husbandly obligation. Other days he would remain for hours staring at her name in the marble, wondering, in another life, what might have been.

 

_Three blue-eyed children – two girls and one boy – running around the back garden of a lovely cottage in the country somewhere. Mary chasing them with that twinkle in her eyes. Sherlock rolling his eyes at the display – Oh, dull; **this** is what you’ve been on about all these years, John? –unable to completely hide the affection in his haughty expression._

It was John’s fantasy; Sherlock could be there if he wanted him to be.

 

-*-

 

Four months after Mary’s unexpected departure, John woke up and the day was somehow different.

 

John had actually expected this on his first Christmas without Mary, his third without Sherlock. He expected it to be the day that ultimately destroyed him, breaking through the layers of indifference; however, it had passed by rather quickly, almost like any other day, barely a blip on his radar. John had forced himself to sing carols and drink eggnog and exchange gifts to appease his friends, but his detached apathy had remained intact throughout. Instead, it was a date barely a month later that undid him. In retrospect, John should have seen it coming.

 

He hadn’t really been keeping track on the calendar, but he knew with certainty what day it was. It _felt_ different; for the first time in months, John registered an identifiable emotion.

 

It was dread.

 

Today was the third anniversary of Sherlock’s death. John and Mary had tacitly agreed a year ago that this date, this anniversary, was the only time John would be allowed to torture himself with thoughts of _what if, I miss you, one more miracle_ at Sherlock’s grave. Now the day had come, and John anxiously, fearfully, did **not** want to go. He had no idea why; he had been making the trip to Mary’s headstone every day for a full four months and it never had this effect on him. Sherlock had died years ago, John had made his peace with it. Why should it bother him so much now?

 

John tried to shake the awful sense of anticipation rising in his gut as he went through his morning routine. His leg bobbed up and down rapidly as he sat on the sofa having tea with Mrs. Hudson.

She eyed him with concerned suspicion.

 

“Are you alright, dear?”

 

John smiled more widely than he’d done in months; it was wholly fake, but he felt that he might burst if he didn’t do something with this surge of uncontrollable nervous energy. He wiped it quickly from his face when Mrs. Hudson’s expression twisted slightly in alarm.

 

“Yes, yes, good. Just a bit antsy, yeah?”

 

She nodded uncertainly and went back to sipping her tea, telling him all about the awful brat of a child the “married ones” next door had just adopted. Tipped over all of her bins. His laugh sounded hysterical even to his own ears.

 

Molly and Greg joined them for lunch ( _of course they would, today_ ). John’s nerves were catching; Molly was even more flustered than usual, and Greg was watching him with measured worry. The wedding was in six short months. John experienced a sudden, malicious stab of jealousy. It must have shown on his face; Molly paused in her overly detailed description of the bridesmaid gowns.

 

“John, are, have I upset you?”

 

The hysterical laugh again, although there was an edge to it this time. John’s indifference from the last several months no longer seemed so much like apathy. He now felt like it had been a thin barrier protecting him from the harsh reality of the outside world, stretching thinner and thinner as it tried to encompass him, moving quickly towards a breaking point.

 

It broke.

 

When John spoke next, his tone was exaggeratedly cheerful; dangerous.

 

“No, what makes you think that? Why _ever_ would I be bothered? Why would _you_ blathering endlessly on and on about your wedding _ever_ upset a man who had recently lost his wife? It’s not like she died at your bloody engagement do or anything like that, is it?”

 

_A bit not good._

Icy silence reigned in the room for a beat. Then Molly’s eyes filled with tears.

 

“I…oh my God, John. I didn’t mean, I’m so sorr –”

 

“Just go.”

 

Molly’s eyes were wide, her face stricken. John felt disgusted with himself; after months of feeling nothing at all, the emotion was so raw he thought he might vomit. He needed them all out, now. Molly gathered her things quickly, knocking over half of the table’s contents in her rush to leave the room. Mrs. Hudson hurried after her, shooting John a disappointed glare on the way out. John heard Molly begin to sob in earnest as soon as she was on the other side of the door.

 

Greg hadn’t moved a muscle. His continued presence in the room, his persistent, discerning gaze, caused John’s passions to veer violently into anger. His self-control had apparently snapped as well.

 

“Oh, what, Greg? Is this the part where you defend her honor, rap me a good one on the chin and tell me to stop being an inconsiderate wanker? Oh, or are you taking the good cop route? You going to give me the speech about how you _understand_ , how you’re all _here_ for me, that you all _care_ about me so damn much that you can’t leave me in peace for ten fucking seconds?”

 

Greg sighed, tried to mask the annoyance in his features, looked away. He calmly stood, buttoning his suit jacket and smoothing the wrinkles out of his trousers ( _work day; he fought through the traffic at lunch hour just to come check on your fucking ungrateful arse_ ).

 

“It’s hard on all of us, John. We all loved Mary. And Sherlock died saving us too, you know, or is this all you learned from him about how to treat your friends?”

 

Lestrade left before John could reply. He felt like he’d been doused in ice water.

 

John spent the afternoon pacing in the sitting room, trying to decide whether or not to visit either headstone today. He couldn’t pay tribute to Mary and ignore Sherlock without Sherlock’s black monolith looming ominously in the background, silently judging him.

 

There had to be hundreds of cemeteries in the goddamned city, why on God’s green earth had he interred Mary in the same one as Sherlock?

 

_Sentiment._

He sighed. That sense of dread was still roiling in his stomach. John had spent quite some time after Greg and Molly’s departure on his knees in front of the toilet, heaving until there was nothing left to come up. The whole scene at lunchtime had unfortunately caused John to fully appreciate how difficult the last few months had been for everyone, not just him, how concerned they had all been for him.

 

And how much of an ungrateful burden he was.

 

John willed down the bile rising in his throat and made a decision. He had made a promise to Mary, and he was going to fulfill it. Sherlock had died to save him, and he was going to pay his respects. He could sort through all of these bloody _feelings_ later.

 

As he gathered his jacket and keys, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Mary was begging him not to go.

 

Gladstone stood in the sitting room staring after John as the door shut, leash clenched in his teeth. John had forgotten all about him.

 

-*-

 

John stood in the cemetery, halfway between Mary’s and Sherlock’s headstones. He didn’t know which way to go.

 

John didn’t know what to do about a lot of things today. He didn’t know how he felt, shifting rapidly between emotions _dread anger guilt anger fear despair_ that he couldn’t sort out. He didn’t know how to _begin_ to make things right with Lestrade and Molly, or with Mrs. Hudson for that matter.

 

_Ah, great, uncertainty. Let’s just add another one to the list, shall we?_

 

He wished he hadn’t forgotten Gladstone. He would have happily followed the bulldog’s lead, wherever it may take him, and he felt exposed without him.

 

Thinking of Gladstone inevitably made him think of Mary, of sobbing in a hallway wrapped around his dead wife’s irritating dog. John gulped down his tears and made his way to Mary’s gravesite first.

 

He had thought that losing her had completely drained him, that she had taken so much of him with her that he was incapable of really experiencing her loss. He was wrong; as John laid the fresh roses amongst weeks’ worth of wilted ones ( _the cemetery staff must really hate me_ ), he realized that the absence of emotion _was_ the emotion. John finally _felt_ the hole in his heart like a physical wound. No tears came. It wasn’t sadness, precisely; just an acute, relentless pain.

 

John brushed his fingers once over her name before turning away. His anxiety began to mount again as he approached Sherlock’s grave. With every step he took, memories swirled past his vision.

 

_Running with Sherlock across rooftops. Fighting with Sherlock about heads in the freezer. Laughing with Sherlock at Mycroft while Sherlock sat naked in Buckingham Palace. Kissing Sherlock in an alleyway. Yelling at Sherlock – you machine! Watching Sherlock fall._

_Please, John, will you do this for me?_

 

Standing at last in front of Sherlock’s headstone, the full weight of everything that had happened in the past three years suddenly hit John with the force of a speeding train, driving the air from his lungs. Losing Sherlock, losing a half of himself, his sense of purpose, finding Mary and barely healing before losing her too. Losing her before they could even really start a life together. Disconnecting from all of the other people who mattered, losing touch with Harry, breaking Molly’s kind heart, driving away his last remaining friends.

 

All of his swirling emotions coalesced into one finite point, a bright beacon full of purpose.

 

John knew what he had to do.

 

-*-

 

_Mrs. Hudson has the gun. Too much of a mess anyway; I’m trying to remove a burden, not create one._

 

John had been thinking the whole cab ride home about how he would do it, grim determination overtaking his heart. It was the most sensible action, really. Mrs. Hudson had plenty of friends, had even started seeing the bloke down the street that ran the delicatessen. She didn’t need John in her life making things so difficult. Greg and Molly were trying to start a new life together; they deserved to be happy, not tied down to a broken man. He and Harry didn’t really talk anyway, so it shouldn’t make any difference to her in the long run if he was in London or under the dirt. Mycroft could just go stuff himself.

 

God, the universe, fate, or whatever had made it perfectly clear what it thought of John Watson. It had done its utmost to break him, and it had finally succeeded. He was ready to raise the white flag.

 

They arrived at Baker Street. John emptied his wallet of all its cash and gave it to the cabbie, who offered genuine, astonished thanks at receiving the huge sum. John felt a surge of pleasure at the good deed; it’s not like he needed the money, not where he was going.

 

He worried for a brief moment what he would say to Mrs. Hudson when he met her in the hallway, but his fears were unfounded. She either wasn’t home or was too mad at him still from lunch to greet him. Good. It was better this way for both of them.

 

John looked about the flat for an easy, clean way to off himself. He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t notice a familiar coat and scarf on a hook just inside the door, or the six text messages waiting for him on his mobile, which he’d left on the coffee table.

 

 _Knife to the wrists? No, just as messy as a gunshot. Perhaps I could stick my head in the oven, like one of those maudlin poets, never could remember which one._ He chuckled at that. He opened cupboard doors at random, seeing if there were any remnants of Sherlock’s experiments that might aid him. Curled benignly on the bottom shelf in the cupboard by the cooler was a sturdy length of rope.

 

_Ah, hanging, yes. Of course. Not fussy or melodramatic in the slightest, Sherlock would appreciate that. All they’ll have to do is cut me down._

Before he got to work, John poured out a huge bowl of food for Gladstone and placed a fresh bowl of water in his carrier; he didn’t know how long it would take them to find his body, and he didn’t want the poor dog to die of starvation. Gladstone pawed at the hem of John’s jeans, whining and snuffling, clearly agitated by something. John wondered if he could sense what was coming. He patted the dog’s head gently while guiding him into the crate with the food and water, closing the latch on the door and ignoring his barks of protest.  He then started on tying the knot for the noose. When he was finished, he tested its strength by placing his hand in the loop and yanking, hard. The knot held.

 

John wondered for a minute if he should leave a note. _That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note._ He could maybe put it as an entry on his long-forgotten blog…

 

_No. They all know why. They’re not stupid._

 

He started for the doorway into the kitchen, remembering Sherlock had some success murdering a manikin just outside the threshold under similar conditions. John was quite a bit heavier than that, but he hoped the hook Sherlock had screwed into place for the purpose was still sturdy after all these years. He was just about to loop the rope through the hook ( _no sense putting it off_ ), when a noise from the bath startled him.

 

It had been a loud bang, followed by a groan of pain. John would have thought he imagined it, but he knew without a doubt that someone was there when the tap came on.

 

John considered his options. He could just go through with it; he imagined the look of surprise on the burglar’s face when he stumbled across the body, getting way more than he bargained for. The thought made him laugh. But what if the bastard wasn’t a totally heartless criminal; what if he called an ambulance, or tried to save him? And there was, of course Mrs. Hudson to consider. He could hardly leave her alone in the house with a bloody burglar, on the off chance she was sitting downstairs watching telly.

 

John sighed. _Maybe he’ll kill me in the scuffle, and I’ll go out a hero. They’d all like that better anyway_.

 

Slowly, he crept towards the hall bath, picking up a knife along the way. John felt no fear, just a giddy rush of adrenaline. He threw the door open with a shout, ready for a fight.

 

The knife clattered uselessly to the floor. The man in front of John was no burglar, not even a stranger, although his once familiar visage was nearly unrecognizable. He was standing shirtless in front of the sink, John’s old medical kit upturned, the contents spilled haphazardly over the counter and floor around him. At John’s intrusion he had paused, frozen in his efforts to stitch up a long gash between his ribs, the thread stretching grotesquely between the jagged edge of bloodied skin and the needle in his outstretched hand. The once long, dark curls that had framed his face had been bleached and closely cropped, and the usual smooth skin on his jaw was covered in stubble. He had always been painfully thin, but the lithe muscles that used to cover his bones were now completely emaciated; his shoulders jutted out at stark angles and John could count every single one of his ribs. The deathly pallor of his skin, thrown into sharp relief against the river of blood pouring down his stomach, paired with the dark, deep hollow under his high cheekbones reminded John of a different dead loved one ( _dead, supposed to be dead_ ). The only part of him that remained unchanged was the pair of piercing grey eyes currently boring into John’s own. It didn’t matter that the sight before him was completely impossible; John would know those eyes anywhere.

 

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t in the ground under a black marble headstone in a London cemetery. He was standing in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street, very much alive. John gaped at him.

 

After a few long moments of just staring, Sherlock finally broke the silence. His voice was the same rumbling, velvet purr that John remembered, although his tone was aiming, and failing, for lighthearted.

 

“Ah, John, good. You’re finally home; I tried texting you. Mind giving me a hand?”


	5. No light, no light in your bright blue eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a million things that John wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he was hurt he hadn’t trusted him with this knowledge three years ago. He wanted to ask Sherlock if he knew the effect his death had on John, if he knew about Mary. John wanted to tell Sherlock how relieved he was that he was still alive, that it gave him something else to live for, even if he didn’t yet know whether that “something else” was burning anger or hope. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he loved him. But the words still wouldn’t come; it was all too much and John felt himself shutting down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any and all mistakes are mine, and feedback is very much appreciated. Story and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

_“Ah, John, good. You’re finally home; I tried texting you. Mind giving me a hand?”_

 

Sherlock looked at John expectantly. He’d made the request like it was nothing, like he’d just popped out for a bit chasing a lead and now needed John’s assistance on the case. Like he wasn’t bleeding all over the bathroom floor, back from the dead after three fucking years.

 

It didn’t make any sense. John thought he should say something smart or profound, but no words would come. So he kept staring, eyes drawn to the steady stream of blood flowing out of Sherlock’s wound.

 

_Blood, so much blood, pavement slippery-slick with it, melted snow and rain and blood eddying along in a sickly river of gore, staining the knees of my jeans after I fall, always falling, Sherlock falling, fallingfallingfalling –_

When John opened his eyes ( _when did I close them?_ ) Sherlock was much closer, quickly reorganising his features before he thought John could notice the look of concern. Absently John noted that Sherlock’s large, strong hands were gripping his upper arms, guiding him to brace against the wall; John must have started to black out. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he began to realize that the calming soundtrack in the background was actually Sherlock speaking once more.

 

“ – steady, John. It’s alright. It’s okay now. I need you to breathe, can you do that?”

 

_– do this for me?_

 

John drew in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to wrench free from Sherlock’s grasp, but he only succeeded in knocking his own head against the wall. Sherlock squeezed his arms tighter and John felt trapped, helplessly frightened within the cage created by Sherlock’s blood-stained body. He needed Sherlock to move, to back off, so that John could think properly; he had to figure out how to articulate all of the competing, contradictory thoughts and questions _lied to me hate you love you fucking bastard how how how?_ building up behind his frozen vocal chords. He placed both hands firmly on Sherlock’s chest ( _warm skin beating heart **alive**_ ) and shoved, hard.

 

Sherlock reeled back, stumbling into the counter and banging his hip on the corner, catching himself on the towel rack with one hand while the other pressed tightly over the gash in his side. His expression remained as impassive as ever as he righted himself, but his colour had gone ashen. His breathing quickened and his fingers trembled where the blood was seeping through them. Now it was John’s turn to rush forward, the doctor in him kicking into gear in spite of his paralyzing inner turmoil. Or maybe it was his instinct to keep Sherlock safe, switching on after all these years dormant. Whatever it was, Sherlock raised his free hand, the one not staunching the bleeding, in a silent request that John wait a moment. John stopped abruptly; apparently it was still his instinct to obey Sherlock’s whims as well, no matter how absurd the circumstance. Once his breathing returned to normal Sherlock lowered the hand, silently beckoning for John to come closer. John moved forward to study the injury.

 

“I should have expected that reaction. Apologies; my mind is not altogether focused at the moment. I’ll admit that I’m…uncertain of the usual social protocol when revealing your not-death to an erstwhile friend and flatmate.”

 

John tried to glare daggers at Sherlock but really only managed dumbfounded shock. Upon meeting Sherlock’s eyes, he relaxed a bit; the joke may have sounded flippant, but John didn’t think he was imagining the fear and anxiety behind Sherlock’s outwardly cool gaze. He definitely wasn’t imagining the slight waver in that deep voice.

 

 _He’s afraid I hate him. He might be right_.

 

Still unsure how to react, John remained silent. He turned his full attention to stitching up the slice in Sherlock’s ribcage. He noted with a small level of amusement that Sherlock’s leg was twitching nervously.

 

_Good. Let him squirm._

 

John picked up the needle and thread where it was dangling from the cut and set to work, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock had apparently gained some modicum of self-control and social awareness in the past three years; for once in his life, he resisted the urge to speak his mind, allowing John a few moments of peace.

 

Unable to process the situation in its entirety, John focused on examining the physical changes in his friend. John may not have had Sherlock’s talent for deducing whole stories from minute details, but he could still read much of what he’d missed in Sherlock’s appearance. Money had obviously been tight: aside from his unhealthy weight loss, Sherlock was wearing a ratty, baggy pair of jeans and equally battered trainers, a far cry from the well-tailored £600+ suits that usually adorned his person. Whatever he’d been up to, it had been dangerous as well. There was, of course, the wound John attended to at present ( _a near miss, just a few inches up and it would’ve killed him – for real this time_ ), but there was also a nasty, raised starburst of scar tissue on Sherlock’s abdomen ( _gunshot; pity, somebody beat me to shooting him_ ). John determinedly ignored the new track marks in the crook of Sherlock’s right arm and what they might signify about his emotional state. After he cleaned the area around the fresh stitches and affixed a bandage, he finally looked up into Sherlock’s face.

 

The changes here were far subtler, but John had spent more time studying that face than he cared to admit. Sherlock had always had a young face ( _like Mar – NO_ ). People had often assumed that he was far younger than John than the mere five years that separated them. Nobody would think that now, John mused. Without its dark, glossy sheen and natural curl, Sherlock’s hair looked flat and dull. The blonde washed him out, casting a grey hue over his already pale complexion. Underneath the stubble on his jaw John could barely make out another scar, a long, jagged line reaching from his chin to just behind his ear. There were a few new lines in the previously smooth skin of his forehead and around his eyes, suggesting stress. Sherlock Holmes looked every bit as old as his thirty-eight years, plus interest. John found himself unable to look away from Sherlock’s eyes; last he’d seen them they’d appeared dull and lifeless, windows into an empty house. Now, John thought he could see something lurking there behind the stormy grey. Was Sherlock in pain, sad, distressed? Or was it something else?

 

John almost thought he looked haunted.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat in obvious discomfort. John had been staring for quite some time.

 

“I know it must seem so… _sentimental_ that I return on the exact date of my supposed death.” His expression coiled in disgust. “I’m sure everyone will comment on how _poetic_ it is. How dull for them that it’s merely a case of coincidence and good timing…”

 

_Good timing._

John turned and left the bathroom without hearing the rest of Sherlock’s explanation. He still hadn’t spoken a word.

 

On the way into the sitting room John noticed the noose still hanging from the ceiling. He yanked it down and stuffed it into the space between the cushions on the sofa as he took a seat. He wasn’t all that bothered what Sherlock might say if he saw it; he just didn’t know how to deal with that conversation right now. To be fair, John didn’t know how to deal with anything that was happening right now. He sat and stared straight ahead into the darkness. Distantly he could hear Gladstone still whining in his carrier.

 

For the second time that night Sherlock invaded his personal space. This time, he was crouching down in front of the divan, level with John, peering questioningly into John’s eyes. He raised a hand as if to lay it on John’s arm, to grasp his hand in his own, but aborted the movement halfway through and instead wiped it over his own face in frustration.

 

“John, this conversation would be far more productive if you would speak.”

 

 _Never really mattered to you before_.

 

There were a million things that John wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he was hurt he hadn’t trusted him with this knowledge three years ago. He wanted to ask Sherlock if he knew the effect his death had on John, if he knew about Mary. John wanted to tell Sherlock how relieved he was that he was still alive, that it gave him something else to live for, even if he didn’t yet know whether that “something else” was burning anger or hope. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he loved him. But the words still wouldn’t come; it was all too much and John felt himself shutting down again. An hour ago he was standing over Sherlock’s rotting corpse feeling a horrific clarity of purpose. Twenty minutes ago he was about to hang himself, absolutely certain he was doing the right thing. Now he was staring at the man responsible for this chaotic spiral, and he was _alive_ , and John didn’t understand. So, instead of saying the myriad things he wanted to say, John said the only thing his tangled mind could coherently manage.

 

“Explain.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again. He stared at John a few seconds longer before, nodding to himself, he came to a decision. He unfolded gracefully to his feet and started pacing. John noticed that Sherlock’s hands were twitching anxiously; he wondered if it was nerves or withdrawal.

 

“Of course. It’s only natural that you’d be confused. Let’s start at Bart’s, shall we, and go from there?”

 

Sherlock paused and looked to John for confirmation ( _another miracle_ ). When John nodded, Sherlock resumed his pacing and began.

 

“Right. I knew as soon as we met Richard Brook at Riley’s that Moriarty’s plan must end in my death; it was the only way to completely destroy my reputation. With me gone it was less likely anyone could set the record straight. I couldn’t allow that to happen, obviously, so I had to formulate a plan. After we separated I visited Molly Hooper in the morgue at St. Bart’s and we devised a solution: I would force Moriarty into a meeting on the roof of the hospital and try to coerce a confession. If failed, I would jump, and she would fake the death certificate for me –”

 

“Molly knew?” John felt something dark stirring inside of him. Sherlock, oblivious, waved him off impatiently.

 

“Of course I needed an ally in the medical community if I wanted Moriarty convinced of my death. Molly’s illogical devotion to me made her the best candidate. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The faked suicide was meant to be a last resort; I believed I could trick Moriarty into confessing, record it on my phone – but of course, from your blog, I assume you already know all of that. Even after he informed me of the gunmen, I _still_ had faith that I could beat him.” Sherlock’s tone took on a note of aggravation. “I underestimated his insanity, of course. The lunatic shot himself in the head, leaving me no choice.”

 

John shoved down all of his burgeoning anger; he still had questions, and he thought he needed them answered to know just how betrayed he ought to feel.

 

“But how did you –”

 

“How did I survive the jump? Someone, I’ve deleted most of the details at this point, moved an abandoned lorry full of laundry bags underneath the ledge to cushion the fall while another waited with a pint of my blood. We had to move quickly, naturally, before you or anyone else saw. Molly dressed out a few of the more trustworthy members of the network as doctors and they wheeled me quickly into the hospital, where Molly rushed the proceedings straight through to declaring me dead. She was brilliant. One quite intentional bungling of the paperwork later and the autopsy was finished, death certificate signed, cremated remains headed for the old family plot. Any questions?”

 

Sherlock looked smug. If John weren’t so infuriated, he too would have been impressed by the plan and Molly’s deception. A few things still weren’t adding up, though.

 

“Whose remains…?”

 

Sherlock fluttered his fingers dismissively. “Some unclaimed cadaver from the morgue.”

 

John bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He had been visiting the grave of a total stranger. Just a few more minutes and he could rant and rail all he wanted.

 

“And Moriarty’s body?”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed briefly in irritation. “Apparently Moran – the gunman on you, Moriarty’s right-hand man – was the sentimental type; cleared out the whole scene and collected the body before the police could get there. I assume it made clearing my name a bit trickier.”

 

John laughed humourlessly. “It’s not like you gave two shits about that.” Sherlock glanced sharply over at him but said nothing.

 

“Okay, explain this, then: I took your pulse, you were dead!”

 

Sherlock offered a patient, sympathetic look.

 

“All smoke and mirrors, John. A squash ball squeezed tightly in the armpit stops the pulse to that wrist. I knew you would be thorough.”

 

“But how did you, they, all know enough to plan that far ahead? You yourself just said it was a last resort!”

 

Apparently this conversation wasn’t going according to the brilliant plan in Sherlock’s head; he was clearly aggravated by John’s lack of effusive praise.

 

“Fortunately, by the time of Moriarty’s suicide, the plan had already been set into motion. My phone call to you was the final signal for Molly and the homeless network to get into position – ”

 

And suddenly John knew everything he needed to know. His furious mind was stuck on something Sherlock had said.

 

_This phone call, it’s my note._

“You used me as a bloody signal? That…that call was all part of the plan?”

 

Sherlock froze. Something in John’s voice stopped him: maybe it was John’s clear distress, maybe it was the hint of something far more dangerous hiding behind John’s words. He slowly turned to face John full on, speaking much more quietly now.

 

“John, please. There were several reasons for it: I needed a way of letting the participants know it was time. I needed to keep you at a safe distance to ensure that Moran couldn’t properly see what was happening on the ground. I needed you _safe_. I had hoped that convincing you I was a fraud would make it less difficult for you. I see now that I was wrong. Believe me when I say this has been difficult for me as well.”

 

Sherlock’s face was as open as John had ever seen it, his eyes were pleading with John to understand. John refused. The fierce anger boiling over in his stomach left no room for compassion.

 

“Difficult? That’s the best you can do, is it? I nearly fucking lost my _mind_ Sherlock, and you’re going to stand there telling me how _difficult_ this all was for _you_?”

 

John was up, now, his voice rising with every syllable. In the back of his mind he hoped that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t downstairs, or she would surely interrupt them and the whole situation would derail even further. Right now this was just about the two of them, Sherlock and John. Everyone else could wait to yell at the bastard later.

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, schooling his features into a look of calm condescension that John knew all too well. It only served to stoke the fire burning in his chest.

 

“I’m not trying to diminish the importance of – ”

 

“Like hell you’re not. You _lied_ to me! What did you think would happen? You’d waltz in here after being dead for three years and things would immediately go back to the way they were? I’d make you a nice cuppa and we’d all laugh about how _clever_ you’d been to fool everyone, to fool me?”

 

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “No, of course not, John – ”

 

“And just where the hell have you _been_ anyway? Couldn’t be bothered to drop a line in three years’ time and suddenly you’re just standing in our fucking bathroom like nothing’s happened, without a care in the world. Why tonight?”

 

John raised his eyebrows expectantly. Sherlock stayed silent.

 

“I’m waiting.”

 

“Oh, I’m allowed to speak now, am I?”

 

John moved forward, ready to strike; Sherlock raised his hands in a gesture of placation.

 

“OK, just, relax. Give me a few more moments to offer an adequate explanation and then you can abuse me all you like. Acceptable?”

 

John’s hands clenched into fists at his side, but he nodded. Sherlock spoke quickly, a faint hint of urgency in his delivery. With every breath he moved closer to John.

 

“I knew even after Moriarty’s death that his network would still be intact, it was far too intricate to collapse with one man. No, there would be someone new at the helm, ready to strike out at the slightest whisper of my survival – at you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, maybe even Mycroft if they were especially stupid. I couldn’t allow that to happen, John. I knew nobody would think of watching Molly, not after the way I barely thought of her,” Sherlock looked momentarily ashamed before shaking it off, “but that’s neither here nor there. I needed to disappear for awhile and plan my next course of action – hunting down Moriarty’s henchmen. That’s where I’ve been, John. If you knew the things I’ve done, that I was willing to do to keep you safe…” Sherlock was practically on top of him now, standing as close as he could without touching, grey eyes piercing blue. “If you knew, you would never accuse me of not caring.”

 

Sherlock’s gaze was unflinching as he loomed over John, aiming for intimidating. John set his jaw and stared defiantly back.

 

“If you care so much then why couldn’t you trust me? I’m not your damsel in distress, Sherlock, I could have _helped_! And you still haven’t answered my question. You left me in the dark for three whole years” – _you left me_ – “why tell me now?”

 

Sherlock let out an irritated growl, throwing his hands in the air as he resumed his pacing.

 

“Because it wasn’t _safe_ , don’t you see? As long as there was even the _slightest_ risk that Moriarty’s men would come after you I couldn’t come home. Do you think it was easy, staying away? I watched you falling apart at my headstone and I didn’t even feel remotely ashamed of the display; if anything, I felt everything a hundredfold. Me, John!” Sherlock gripped his short hair in anguish. “I couldn’t accomplish a single thing if I was constantly worried about the effect it would have on you, so I went away. I bided my time until I could be sure of my success. Being dead gave me an advantage; they weren’t expecting me. I took them out methodically, one at a time, anyone that might pose a threat to you or the others. And tonight I _finally_ succeeded, John. Moran, the new chairman of Moriarty’s criminal enterprise, at last defeated, though as you can see it was no small feat.”

 

Sherlock gestured imperiously to the bandage on his chest, thin chest heaving from the force of his outburst. He looked far too pleased with himself for saving John’s life. John stifled a sudden impulse to reach out and pull the infuriating little shit toward him in a loving embrace. That could wait; he was still livid.

 

“Well I stand corrected,” John sneered. “Poor Sherlock, ever the bloody martyr. Forced to face the criminal underworld all alone, nothing but his brilliant mind to keep him company. Nobody could ever _hope_ to accompany him on such a – ”

 

“DO NOT MOCK ME!” Sherlock grabbed John’s biceps and shook him. John’s mouth snapped shut and he gaped at Sherlock in awe. Sherlock loosened his grasp but didn’t let go, his head hanging down between them and breathing ragged. He slowly raised his eyes and looked desperately into John’s; John thought Sherlock’s own were glistening with unshed tears, but that didn’t seem like the Sherlock that John knew. He placed a shaking hand on the side of John’s face. Maybe John didn’t know Sherlock at all.

 

“You have no idea how hard it has been.”

 

John’s arms remained at his sides. He focused on a point to the left of Sherlock’s trembling shoulders. He thought of a white marble headstone, just a few rows away from Sherlock’s, of the lovely woman buried under it. He thought of a noose currently buried in the cushions of the sofa.

 

“I think I have some idea,” he said softly. He pried Sherlock’s fingers from his arm and returned to his seat on the divan. Sherlock stood there for a brief second looking lost, hand still stretched before him. Then he set his shoulders into a defensive stance and returned his face to its usual defiant mask.

 

“I only did what I had to do.”

 

John scoffed. “That’s debatable,” he raised a hand to forestall Sherlock’s interruption. “No, you’ve had your turn, now it’s mine. I believe you, Sherlock, when you say that you _thought_ this was the only way to keep us safe, but I disagree. You have to try to understand how I’m feeling, okay?”

 

“And how is that?”

 

For a brief second John wanted to snap back something about making deductions but swallowed the words. Yelling wasn’t getting them anywhere and he didn’t want either of them to say something they’d regret. He’d just gotten Sherlock back, and even if he was currently furious with the self-important prick, he didn’t want to lose him again. Even his ire couldn’t blind him to the fact that he was still completely in love with the twat. He was proud that he managed to keep his voice mostly level as he explained:

 

“I’m betrayed that you would go to the bloody, one-woman, Sherlock Holmes fan club for help, but not tell me, your supposed “only friend”. I’m angry that you used me in your scheme against my will. I’m hurt that you stayed away for three years while I…” John choked back a sob. “I was _devastated_ , Sherlock. Devastated and alone –” John thought he saw Sherlock jerk at that, out of the corner of his eye, but there was no interruption. “You should have told me. It’s as simple as that. And I need you to understand that I’m going to need some time alone to cope with all of this. I need you to stay somewhere else for awhile, please, for me.”

 

John hated that he’d turned to begging at the end, but he needed Sherlock to realize how important the request was. Sherlock stood for a moment studying him with a calculating gaze. Something in his expression had shifted; John found it disturbing for some reason, but he couldn’t place his finger on it. Sherlock waited a long while before speaking.

 

“You know, I did come home once briefly, a year ago. You weren’t here.”

There was a word for the new emotion lurking behind Sherlock’s detachment: jealousy. John didn’t like where this abrupt change in subject was leading them. He chose his words carefully, suddenly tired of this fight. He was tired of this entire day.

 

“No, I…I’d moved out.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed maliciously. John _definitely_ didn’t like where this was going.

 

“Yes, I know. I saw you at the cemetery with her.”

 

John flinched but said nothing, hoping that the conversation would drop. Maybe they could both go to bed and deal with this in the morning when John’s handle over his emotions wasn’t so tenuous and Sherlock wasn’t being an obtuse arse.

 

“Touched a nerve, have I? It’s just, you’ve been going on about how terribly _hard_ this has been on you, John. I’m simply curious as to how this womanfits into that difficulty. Easing your pain, was she?”

 

John was slowly losing control. His mounting fury propelled him to his feet.

 

“We are NOT talking about this. Not now. Leave me alone, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were dancing in spiteful glee, his tone sardonic and dripping with fake mirth.

 

“It’s nothing to be _ashamed_ of, John. You’ve always turned to the dull, predictable comforts of a relationship when life became too…difficult. I actually borrowed a page out of your playbook while I was away.”

 

An icy, prickling sensation danced along John’s spine. Apparently Sherlock wasn’t the only one capable of jealousy in this scenario.

 

“Who?”

 

Sherlock smiled. It was predatory.

 

“An old friend. I think you might know her, Irene Adler?”

 

John sputtered for a moment, uncomprehending. Irene Adler was dead. Then again, so was Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t know why he was so shocked; Sherlock had proved time and again, and recently, that leaving John in the dark was one of his favorite pursuits.

 

“She’s…she’s alive? And you knew?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I _know_ ; who do you think helped her achieve it?” He tried to look nonchalant. “I suppose you’re going to yell at me for lying to you about that one too.”

 

He did want to yell, but he knew all at once what Sherlock was up to: he was attempting to provoke John, push the fight to its breaking point so they could move past it. It’s what he’d always done in the past when John was angry at him and refused to deal with it. Sherlock would antagonize him intentionally, John would yell, Sherlock would be condescending, John would yell some more, Sherlock would say something disarmingly sweet, and they would both end up laughing, friends again. John knew that wouldn’t work this time, though. Sherlock had crossed a line.

 

He had brought up Mary.

 

“I think I’m going to bed.”

 

John made for the door, turning his back to Sherlock and attempting to run away from this before it got out of hand. Sherlock clearly had no idea what had happened with Mary; regardless of all John was learning about his friend tonight, he could never believe that Sherlock would be so intentionally cruel.

 

“But John, I’m dying to swap war stories. Although, from the fact that you’ve moved back here I can assume that your situation must not have worked out.”

 

John tensed for a moment and swayed, gripping the doorframe for stability. He managed to grit out between clenched teeth: “We are not. talking. about. this. Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock laughed, but it was harsh, no cheer behind it at all. “Come now, John, jealousy? I never had you pegged you for a hypocrite. You were alone, I was alone, and what _wonders_ a woman can do…”

 

White-hot rage blinded John. When he came back to himself, his right hand was throbbing, the knuckles cracked and bruised. Sherlock was sprawled on the rug before him; his hand was working his jaw back and forth, creating a clicking sound. There was blood oozing out of a split lip and a bruise purpling on the left side of his chin. John needed Sherlock to _stop_ ; he could barely vocalize his wrath.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ compare Mary to that…that _whore_. Don’t speak of Mary at all, don’t even _think_ about her. You have absolutely no idea what she was to me; you have no IDEA what these past few months have been like.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed from his position on the floor, his lip curled, but his anxiety was still visible, concealed behind the external disdain. This was all still part of the plan, then, trying to let John’s anger run its course. John knew what came next. He braced himself.

 

“Oh, don’t I? Let’s test that theory. Let’s start with your wardrobe. You’re wearing one of your nicer shirts, certainly far nicer than those atrocious jumpers I’m more accustomed to seeing on you and clearly a gift from a girlfriend. However it’s quite worn and doesn’t fit you very well, suggesting that it’s been some time since its initial purchase and since you’ve gone out clothes shopping. If you had been living with that woman – Mary, was it? – recently your clothes would undoubtedly be in far better condition, as would the state of your hair and shaving; no decent girlfriend lets her man out of the house looking like that. How long have the two of you been living apart? Well, from the arrangement of the dishes on the countertop and the nice divot you’ve worn into that center cushion on the sofa I’d wager it’s been quite some time, four to five months, at least. ‘Well, maybe we’re still dating; maybe I was out on a date with her tonight,’ you say! The idea had crossed my mind, given your aforementioned choice in shirt, but you’re also wearing jeans and trainers, which clarifies that it can’t have been _too_ formal a destination, and the mud on the knees of your jeans arouses my suspicions that you’ve just returned from a trip to the cemetery. Further confirmation of this are the small pinpricks on the palms of your hands - they’ve been grasping something covered in sharp, pointy spikes, a bunch of roses, perhaps? Really, John, you shouldn’t have. Now, back to the flat, a closer examination of which can tell us more about ‘what these past few months have been like,’ as you say …”

 

Pausing in his deductions while he got slowly to his feet, Sherlock’s eyes darted about the room in search of more ammunition, more ways to rile John up and force him to take over the row until he’d exhausted the source of his fury. If only Sherlock had looked at John, he might have realized that they’d travelled far past that point.

 

“Ah, a new piece of furniture; a frankly hideous armchair, to be more precise, that looks barely used.” Sherlock frowned. “Not used at all in the past several months, as a matter of fact. The pattern and colour suggest a female buyer, clearly, so why would you move _her_ furniture here after you’d broken it off…” realization finally dawned on Sherlock’s face. The cruel torrent of words came to an abrupt halt; when he caught sight of John’s pale, defeated countenance, he looked distraught.

 

“You weren’t bringing roses to _me_ in the cemetery. They were for her.”

 

John was crying now, bitter tears of anger and misery. He couldn’t find it in himself to be ashamed. Sherlock took his silence as confirmation. The detective closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When he had sorted himself out Sherlock opened his eyes and stared once more at John, attention flitting down to John’s left hand. John hadn’t worn the ring in several weeks but he guessed that Sherlock could still read its absence somehow.

 

“You were married to her.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You loved her.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“Yes, very much.”

 

Sherlock nodded. He pressed his shaking palms together against his lips as if in prayer, clearly trying to regain his invaluable control. He didn’t entirely succeed; his voice was thick with barely suppressed emotion.

 

“Forgive me, I did not know.”

 

Sherlock’s sympathy, his _pity_ , was too much. John wouldn’t allow him to be the good guy, not after everything he’d said and done.

 

“Oh really? The great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know something? Or maybe you just couldn’t be bothered to find out, since it didn’t concern you directly. I find it surprising you didn’t hear it from Molly, or one of your homeless network, or any of the other people you trusted more than me in the past thr – ”

 

The veneer was cracking; Sherlock couldn’t hide his frantic desperation no matter how hard he tried. He attempted to rewind the conversation and regain a foothold now that he was aware of his previous miscalculation.

 

“I haven’t spoken to Molly or anyone in London in ages, John, not since the suicide scheme. It was far too dangerous. I’ve been completely out of the loop while I tracked Moran. What I said, I was just trying to – you know what I was trying to do. Forgive me; it was a grave error. And I didtrust you. I trusted that you would do anything in your power to save me, risk your life even, just as you’ve always done. But this time it was my turn to protect you. I thought I was saving you -”

 

“ _Saving_ me?” John marched back to the sofa and jerked the noose out from between the cushions, throwing it in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock barely managed to catch it in trembling fingers. His face drained of all its remaining colour.

 

“What is the meaning of this?”

 

John felt a surge of vindictive pride at Sherlock’s suffering.

 

“Why don’t you fucking _deduce_ it, if you’re so bloody clever?”

 

That haunted expression was back; Sherlock swallowed, looked as if he might vomit. When he asked his next question, he was nothing like the Sherlock from a few short minutes ago, nothing like the Sherlock that John remembered at all.

 

“Is it because of losing me, or because you lost her?”

 

The question wasn’t jealous or petty; it was Sherlock trying to measure the extent of his guilt. John answered him honestly.

 

“Because I lost _everything_.”

 

Sherlock flinched as if John had struck him again, looked far more pained than when John actually had. “But you didn’t, it wasn’t real.”

 

_It’s a trick. Just a magic trick._

 

“It was all real for me.”

 

For the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. John wished they were in a situation where he could better savor it. There was no pleasure to be derived from this. Sherlock stared intently at the noose, winding it around his hands. His voice was steady once more, but he wouldn’t ( _couldn’t_ ) meet John’s eyes.

 

“I am deeply sorry. I know that it is not enough. If I’d any idea that you would be so…affected by my loss, I would have found another way. But I honestly did not, and I cannot regret that you are standing in front of me, alive and hating me, but alive nonetheless. I know you must hold me responsible for her as well; you never would have met her if it weren’t…” Sherlock shook himself. “I suppose it is my fault, in the end. I’ll go if you’d prefer; Mycroft will know that I’ve returned by now, and he will take no small pleasure in hearing me beg for a roof over my head.” Sherlock’s lips turned up in a small, unhappy smile at that last. Receiving no immediate reply from a stunned John, he nodded minutely and made his way toward the front door. He paused on the way and rested a hand gently on John’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly in apology.

 

The sound of the door opening snapped John out of his stupor. He panicked; Sherlock was leaving again, and he wasn’t anywhere near finished with him. Sherlock had no business behaving so selflessly while John was trying to hate him. He turned and roughly grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, spinning him around, fully intending to punch him again.

 

Instead, he found himself smashing their lips together in a violent kiss. Sherlock didn’t resist.

 

It wasn’t remotely romantic; there was nothing tender or sweet about the harsh clacking of their teeth, about the way Sherlock’s slender fingers dug bruises into John’s hips. Some distant voice of reason told John that he should stop this madness, that after all of John’s fantasizing it shouldn’t happen like this, while John was still so bloody furious. With all of the conflicting passions during the heat of the moment – _relief rage fear grief lust_ – it was easy to ignore.

 

John worried at Sherlock’s damaged bottom lip with his teeth, reopening the wound there before nudging the seam of Sherlock’s lips forcefully with his tongue. Sherlock immediately let him inside. John tasted blood as he mapped the terrain of Sherlock’s mouth, licking the backs of his teeth and curling his tongue briefly around Sherlock’s own. Sherlock gripped John tightly to him. John could feel the hard, hot length of him through both of their trousers. John pushed him back onto the sofa; Sherlock went willingly.

 

For a moment John just stood there studying the man before him. Sherlock lay there panting, leaning back on his elbows and waiting patiently under the scrutiny. Sherlock’s lips were red and swollen, the bottom lip once again welling up with blood that Sherlock licked away with a tantalizing swipe of his tongue. His high cheekbones and heaving chest were tinged pink, his nipples peaked and cock hard with arousal. He was devastatingly beautiful; somehow that made John even angrier. John straddled one of Sherlock’s thighs and gripped his wrists tightly, raising them none too gently above Sherlock’s head and pressing his long fingers to curl around the arm of the sofa. John gripped Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head back so that they were looking directly into one another’s eyes.

 

“Your hands stay here. If you move them so much as an inch I stop, understood?”

 

“Ye – ”

 

John tugged hard on the short tuft of hair in his hand. Sherlock winced and shut up.

 

“No speaking either. Nod if you understand.” John pressed his thigh into Sherlock’s arousal. His own pushed against Sherlock’s hip.

 

Sherlock nodded helplessly, mouth open in a silent moan.

 

John maintained his tight hold on Sherlock’s hair and leaned down to lick at the long line of Sherlock’s throat. When he reached the pulse point he worried at the skin there with his teeth. Sherlock moaned not so silently at that. The noise went straight to John’s cock. He sucked one more bruise onto Sherlock’s jutting collarbone and sat back on his heels, quickly shucking his shirt. Sherlock lay motionless, knuckles white around the arm of the divan, lips pressed tightly together to prevent him from speaking. John’s heart twisted at the sight; he didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock obey him so readily.

 

His motions gentled a bit after that. He smoothed his hands along Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, careful of the bandage there. His calloused thumbs caught on Sherlock’s nipples, causing him to shiver as he broke out in gooseflesh. John leaned forward and pressed his own chest against Sherlock’s so that they could each feel the frantic beat of the other’s heart. He nuzzled against the underside of Sherlock’s jaw; the sensation of stubble against his face was new, but not unpleasant, as he kissed his way up to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s temple. John’s throat clenched tight with an abrupt swell of emotion.

 

“It could have always been like this, why couldn’t it have _always_ been like this.”

 

Sherlock actually _whimpered_ and turned his head slightly, catching John’s lips in another heated kiss. John’s hands spanned Sherlock’s ribcage, caressed downward toward Sherlock’s hipbones. Sherlock bucked his hips against him and the friction caused a jolt of pleasure to surge up John’s spine.

 

He leaned back far enough to fumble at the zip of Sherlock’s jeans, the backs of his knuckles brushing Sherlock’s tense abdominal muscles. Sherlock’s body twitched at the contact. John glanced quickly up at Sherlock’s face for confirmation; he was desperate and he was still mad, but he had no intention of hurting him, not like this. Sherlock’s eyes were hooded and his mouth hung open and panting. He nodded his assent for John to continue. John reached into Sherlock’s trousers and past the waistband of his pants, pulling out his leaking cock. Sherlock twisted his neck to bury his face in the crook of his arm, biting the skin there to stifle a groan.

 

It was odd feeling another man’s arousal in his hand, but John thought he could manage, using his own preferences as a guide. He gripped the rigid flesh firmly and stroked once, from base to tip, prompting Sherlock to bite down harder on the skin of his arm as his entire body jerked in response. John set up a rhythm, every once in a while pausing on the upstroke to swipe his thumb over the sensitive, exposed head, to lightly run a finger over the frenulum. After ten or so strokes John figured out what worked for Sherlock, swiftly reducing him to a quivering, sobbing mess. Still, Sherlock never attempted to touch John back; he kept his hands wrapped tightly around the arm of the sofa. The muscles in his upper arms tensed painfully with the effort of holding back and tears leaked out of his eyes. He muffled his urgent noises against his inner arm, still refusing to disobey John’s orders even in the midst of his arousal. John could tell that Sherlock hated being so exposed, that he probably never let anyone ( _not even Irene_ ) see him fall apart like this or have this much power over him. He shouldn’t have felt such grim satisfaction at that knowledge.

 

John couldn’t wait any longer: his pants were damp all the way through from precome, beginning to stain his jeans as well. His own, neglected erection was straining painfully against the teeth of his zip. He tried to undo it with one shaking hand but couldn’t manage it. Sherlock let out a noise like a dying animal when John took his hand off his cock, wordlessly urging John to speed up his endeavours to free his own. Successful, he gripped the base firmly and paused, taking in the wrecked image of Sherlock laid out under him. For a minute John was stumped; he was entirely out of his depth in this situation in more ways than one.

 

_What the hell are we doing can’t have sex haven’t been with a man before don’t want to hurt him want to hurt him so **badly**..._

With every passing second the ramifications of their actions threatened to overwhelm him. If he let the guilt of his inappropriate behavior catch up with him he would have no choice but to stop. But right now John needed this more than anything in the world; he needed Sherlock close to him, under his complete control, raw and open and totally John’s. He settled on what he thought was the most manageable method of attack. Bracing one hand beside Sherlock’s on the arm of the sofa, he lowered himself so that their slick cocks slotted against one another and began to thrust against him. It was uncomfortable at first; too dry, the friction almost painful. After a few thrusts, though, the sweat pouring from their bodies and the steady stream of precome leaking from their cocks eased the way. At the first, slick-smooth glide against the crease of Sherlock’s hip, John bit out a moan into the straining tendons of Sherlock’s neck.

 

Their movements became frantic again after that. Sherlock wrapped his wiry legs around John’s waist, pulling him more snugly against him. John reached into the back of Sherlock’s jeans and gripped his arse firmly in one hand, upping the force of his thrusts. He mouthed his pleasure along Sherlock’s jaw, panted brokenly into his ear. Sherlock’s control was slipping, no longer trying to hide his pleasure as his head tipped back in wanton lust. Time lost all meaning – it might have been minutes or days later that Sherlock finally arched his back against John in a graceful curve, chest rumbling on a long, loud exhalation – “John!” – warm wetness spreading in the negative space between their abdomens. The vibrations of Sherlock’s moans and slick warmth were enough to push John over the edge as well; he came silently with a shudder, sagging against Sherlock in a state of semi-consciousness.

 

John lay there for a long while slipping in and out of awareness, vaguely conscious of Sherlock gently kissing his temple. His fingers were tangled in the hair at John’s nape, the other hand travelling up and down in the cooling sweat on John’s spine in a soothing motion. John absently wondered if he was the one sobbing. Slowly, words began to materialize out of the fog around him. Sherlock was whispering softly into John’s ear in a deep, comforting tone:

 

“It’s alright, I’m here now. I lov – ”

 

John scrambled upright out of Sherlock’s embrace, fleeing until his back was pressed against the opposite arm of the sofa. He was suddenly reminded of another urgent bout of lovemaking, another set of gentle words.

 

 _I love you, I’m here, It’s alright_.

 

His heart pounded against his ribcage; he thought it might burst out of his chest. What the hell had he just done? Sherlock was looking at him with those bright grey eyes, his expression alarmed. He cautiously reached for John.

 

“John, please, it’s okay; we’ll figure it all out - ”

 

John stood up, putting more distance between them. The evening came rushing back at him at once – Mary’s headstone, Sherlock’s empty grave, John’s near-suicide, Sherlock’s return, all of the lies, hate, anger, lust, love, _shame_.

 

“I have to go.”

 

Sherlock recoiled as if slapped. “What do you mean you have to go?”

 

He hated himself for the pain in Sherlock’s voice; he hated Sherlock again for causing this whole train wreck in the first place. John quickly gathered his shirt, using the hem to wipe himself clean before tucking it into his trousers. He winced briefly at how disgusting that was. John realized with detached amusement that he’d never even removed his trainers. As he pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys he refused to look at Sherlock, who still appeared thoroughly debauched, dark bruises blooming on his neck and collarbone, lips kiss-swollen and bleeding freely once more.

 

“I’m sorry but I have to go.” He shut the door in the face of Sherlock’s protests and took the steps two at a time out of the flat, holding his breath until he stumbled into the night air. He set forth at a brisk pace without knowing where he was going. He just knew he needed to be _away_. A few doors down from 221B, he finally noticed the tail.

 

A sleek, black Jaguar with tinted windows pulled up beside him. He knew before the window rolled down who it would be.

 

A beautiful woman in a smart black pantsuit sat in the backseat texting distractedly. Without looking up, she rattled off a message, “Mycroft would like a quick word with you, if you’re not too terribly busy.”

 

John’s first instinct was to tell her – and Mycroft – to piss off. He was angry and tired and depressed and – his stomach lurched in shame – he still _reeked_ of sex. Then he heard the sound of a door slamming behind him, footsteps pounding against the pavement after him.

 

John opened the door and quickly lowered himself into the car, resolutely refusing to look back as it pulled away.


	6. It's a conversation I just can't have tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s mind had been torn in so many different directions this evening that he hadn’t known what to think or feel or do, and so he had just acted, entirely on impulse. Now he found himself in the exact same position as before, still at a loss in a sea of warring emotions, with the added bonus of an overpowering, seething sense of shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine; feedback is welcome and appreciated! Story and chapter titles from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

Sitting in the back of the towncar, John’s hands twiddled nervously, fingers drumming out meaningless rhythms on his knees. He kept his gaze directed stubbornly out the window, refusing to make eye contact with Mycroft’s assistant. From the continual, rapid clicking of the keys on her Blackberry, she didn’t notice.

 

John was beginning to regret his eagerness in entering the car. The longer he sat in the deafening, awkward silence, the more disgusting he felt, physically and emotionally. There was nothing to be done for the latter, not now, so he focused on improving his disheveled appearance. He tried to discreetly smooth down his hair and rearrange his clothing, making sure the sticky, drying hem of his shirt was firmly tucked into his jeans. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the attractive young woman smirking at his discomfort; if she could see it, Mycroft almost definitely would. He immediately halted in his efforts and returned to staring at the passing scenery.

 

 _Reflective self-loathing it is, then_.

 

What on earth had been going through his mind, just then, with Sherlock? John liked to think he was a mostly responsible man, patient, long-suffering – it’s part of what made him such a good doctor. He wouldn’t say he wasn’t quick to anger, that wasn’t precisely true, but he’d always done a fair job of controlling that anger when it reared its ugly head; he couldn’t think of a time that he’d done something he actually regretted. Until today, that is: his overly harsh words to Molly and Greg, nearly offing himself, punching Sherlock in the face and then fucking him roughly on the sofa. Then again, he supposed that “anger” was a completely inadequate term for the maelstrom inside of him. John’s mind had been torn in so many different directions this evening that he hadn’t known what to think or feel or do, and so he had just _acted_ , entirely on impulse. Now he found himself in the exact same position as before, still at a loss in a sea of warring emotions, with the added bonus of an overpowering, seething sense of shame.

 

He thought again of the noose and his earlier clarity. If Sherlock had just waited a few minutes longer he wouldn’t be dealing with all of this. His stomach turned.

 

_What the hell is **wrong** with me?_

Drawing a deep, calming breath John rested his forehead against the cool pane of the window; it felt good against his burning face. He tried to think of anything but Sherlock and Mary and Molly and Greg and the rest of the clusterfuck his life had become. He reminded himself to take Gladstone for a long walk tomorrow: the poor beast deserved it after staying shut up in the crate all night. He resolved to call Mrs. Hudson as soon as possible to apologize for his earlier behaviour and thank her for all of her kindness these past few months. Absently, he wondered what time it was; he’d forgotten his watch and phone again at the flat. A quick glance toward the front of the car told him it was only 9:30 PM. It hardly seemed real, but the whole ordeal with Sherlock had barely taken an hour. And with that, suddenly Sherlock was all he could think of: John wondered what he was doing now, if he had gone out looking for him, to apologize or yell or fight or fuck some more. His heart ached with guilt. He tried to shake it off, recalling memories of Sherlock’s arrogant indifference toward John’s suffering, his sneering remarks about Mary. But the only image that would stick in John’s mind was Sherlock’s face after their frantic rutting, flushed with the remnants of pleasure and the beginnings of embarrassment, beautiful eyes wide in shocked pain and trepidation. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off his tears as the car rolled to a stop.

 

“If you’d follow me, please.” Without waiting for a reply the woman stepped out of the car. John hesitated a moment before deciding that no conversation, not even one with Mycroft, could be worse than what he’d just been through. _And it almost certainly won’t end the same way_. He smiled wryly to himself and exited the vehicle. The sight before him was wholly unexpected.

 

In the past Mycroft had always brought him to mouldy, abandoned warehouses or imposing government structures for their clandestine meetings. Even the Diogenes Club had been shrouded in foreboding secrecy. John was therefore shocked to find himself on a busy street in Mayfair, standing in front of the Claridge’s Hotel. Mycroft’s assistant held one of the front doors open with a hip, waiting; she still wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t even stopped texting. Stepping through the open door onto the pristine black and white tiles of the lobby, John felt more than a little out of place with his messy hair and sex-stained clothing. He didn’t have long to be self-conscious, though: his escort had started for the lifts at a brisk pace that had him struggling to keep up, gaping at the five-star extravagance around him until the lift doors slid shut, blocking his view.

Of course John knew of the hotel: it was one of those that celebrities frequented when they were in the city, or so he’d heard on the telly. He’d never personally had the occasion to stay there, however; it may not have been London’s most opulent lodgings, but on his small income, it was well out of his price range. Without looking up from her phone Mycroft’s assistant punched in a number and they began to ascend. As the floors ticked by, John considered the possible reasons for Mycroft’s summons ( _Sherlock, obviously, but why me and not him?_ ), this particular choice in location. He assumed, given his history with the man, that it was a mind game of some sort specifically designed to make John uncomfortable: pluck him off of the street while he’s still dirty and flustered and watch him squirm in the strange, luxurious setting. John wondered how much Mycroft already knew: had he always been aware that Sherlock was alive? Had his apologies over the past three years been an act? Had his _surveillance_ already informed him of John and Sherlock’s activities earlier this evening? The imbalance of power aggravated him as it always had, and he clung to the familiar feeling like a lifeline: in the newly tangled, chaotic mess of his life John still knew exactly where he stood with Mycroft Holmes and, more importantly, where Mycroft Holmes stood with him.

 

_Perhaps this meeting was a good idea after all._

 

He let his annoyance fester and build as he followed the woman off of the lift. He was itching for a chance to unleash his frustration on somebody in an old-fashioned, predictable row. Distracted, he nearly ran into his guide. She had stopped abruptly a few doors down from the elevators and fished a keycard out of her breast pocket, which she then handed to John before turning to leave. It all happened so quickly that his disjointed brain took a few seconds to catch up.

 

“Just through there,” she tossed over her shoulder as she reentered the lift, leaving John alone in the hall. Steeling himself for the altercation no doubt awaiting him on the other side, he slid in the keycard and opened the door.

 

The suite was huge: a short hallway opened into a dimly lit sitting room, and John could just make out, in the soft glow from a small desk lamp, a lavishly decorated bedroom through an archway to the left. Two armchairs, their backs to him, and a short sofa were organized around a coffee table; sitting on the sofa across from him, mostly shrouded in darkness, was Mycroft, one hand holding a tumbler of whisky while the other rested, as always, on the handle of his umbrella. The whole situation – Mycroft’s somber appearance and the low lighting of the suite – reminded John of an overly dramatic scene in a spy film; he laughed derisively just as Mycroft opened his mouth to speak.

 

“New location, but _you_ haven’t changed a bit. Pure drama, as always,” John said before Mycroft could utter a syllable in greeting. He figured now, at the beginning, was the best time to assert himself, to set the tone for the rest of the discussion. “Just tell me, did you know?”

 

Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh. “Very well, John, we’ll skip the pleasantries. Although do please allow me to offer my sincere condolences on your recent loss, as I never received any acknowledgment of my last attempt to do so.” John gritted his teeth but said nothing, throat closing tightly at the mention of Mary and slightly abashed that Mycroft appeared completely sincere. He had no memory of receiving a call or card from him, but John had deleted most of the messages, thrown away most of the notes without looking at them. Part of him now wished that he’d glanced at them more carefully. He decided to take the offering at face value, inclined his head slightly in silent acknowledgment. Mycroft took it as a signal to continue.

 

“Moving on, then, to your question: no, I did not know that my brother was alive until tonight.” At John’s disbelieving look, he elaborated. “I told you once that it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me; that wasn’t merely an empty expression. Even having spent the last several years and my not inconsiderable resources attempting to track down Moriarty’s network, it wasn’t until Moran’s death tonight that the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place, and a quick check of 221B confirmed my suspicions. I’m sure he’ll be _thrilled_ to discover he was successful in deceiving me for such an extended period of time. It’s sure to make the reunion insufferable.”

 

Mycroft’s haggard, drawn face and the slight hitch in his breath belied his cool demeanour. John momentarily pitied him, and was immediately furious for the sentiment – he and Mycroft were supposed to be enemies, and this conversation was not going anywhere near according to plan. He tried to latch on to his earlier resentment.

 

“Is that why you didn’t just phone, because your pride is too bloody hurt to see him? Or is it because you’re the one who fucked everything up for him in the first place?” Mycroft had the decency to look ashamed, so, pressing his advantage, he added, “And why the hell am I here, anyway? What could you possibly want from me right now?”

 

“I admit that I am slightly … apprehensive as to how he’ll react to the role I played in his undoing. But that is not the primary reason for my avoidance. In spite of my constant concern for his safety, I am not the most important person in my brother’s life, Doctor Watson. I wanted to give the two of you awhile to get …” Mycroft paused for a second, studying him. John tried not to fidget under that discerning gaze. “…reacquainted. I assume the two of you made good use of the time?”

 

The implication behind Mycroft’s words caused John’s hackles to raise, but no words came in his defense; the accusation wasn’t inaccurate in the least. Mycroft relaxed a bit in smug satisfaction, having once again reclaimed the upper hand.

 

“Ah, a tumultuous meeting, then, just as I suspected. Wouldn’t want to interrupt that. I figured it would prompt quite the emotional response from you and sent Beatrice to intercept you as soon as you predictably fled –”

 

John’s irritation wasn’t hard to locate now, shame at his own actions and Mycroft’s knowledge of them driving it to the surface. “Yes, I’d worked that last bit out for myself, thanks very much. That still doesn’t answer my question. Why am I _here_? Why me and not him?”

 

He could almost see the gears turning in Mycroft’s brain, trying to find the right words. John was just about to verbalize his impatience when Mycroft snapped out of his reverie.

 

“As I’ve said now, and many times before, I worry about him constantly, but he doesn’t quite trust me.” John opened his mouth to say something scathing about the constant spying and “The Woman” and Moriarty, but Mycroft pinned him with an icy, dangerous glare. “Yes, I’m aware I’ve done little to earn that trust in the past several years, but I _am_ his brother. You, however, he trusts implicitly.”

 

John deflated. “No, he doesn’t.” The hurt and betrayal still twisting his insides nearly overpowered him. “He didn’t tell me a damn thing for _three years_.”

 

The look Mycroft gave him was full of sympathy. John couldn’t even find it in himself to resent it; regarding this, Sherlock’s deception, he felt pretty damn pathetic. Mycroft’s tone was much kinder than usual when he replied. It sounded odd coming from him.

 

“I assure you that he does. I’m sure he’ll have had his reasons for leaving you in the dark.”

 

_I thought I was saving you –_

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Well, I don’t understand it quite yet. So, if that’s what you’re hoping to get from me, an explanation – ”

 

“I want to know from you the same thing I’ve always wanted to know – how is he?”

 

John stopped just short of telling Mycroft to piss off, go see for himself. This conversation was already going in circles. Instead, he launched into a description of the slice in Sherlock’s side.

 

“He has a pretty nasty gash on his ribs that I had to sew up. Says he got it from – ”

 

Mycroft waved his hand, indicating disinterest. “I assume you properly cared for any physical injuries, being a doctor, and a quite good one I hear. My question, John, was how _is_ he?”

 

John was puzzled. “You know he doesn’t like to share that type of stuff, feelings and all that.”

 

Mycroft stared at him pointedly. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

 

He sighed deeply, scrubbing a hand over his face, unsure of how to respond. He dropped into one of the armchairs across from Mycroft, feeling utterly exhausted. Part of him wanted to just leave without answering, but he had no idea where he would go. He considered Harry’s, briefly, but then thought if he had to deal with her drinking on top of everything else his head might actually explode. And he definitely couldn’t go back to Baker Street, not right now, not until he’d sorted himself out and decided how to proceed with Sherlock after all that had passed between them. Molly and Greg weren’t an option either: he assumed that Greg wasn’t ready to forgive him yet for his earlier rudeness, and he wasn’t going to apologize to Molly anytime soon, not now that he knew of her involvement in Sherlock’s deceit. John’s mind turned to Greg, how he would respond once he discovered the truth and what it would do to his and Molly’s relationship; he wondered if Sherlock knew just how many lives he’d turned upside down, potentially ruined. Mycroft cleared his throat lightly; on anyone else, it could have been mistaken for an involuntary action, but John knew that from Mycroft it was essentially a command. He was growing tired of waiting.

 

Deciding he had no other options at the moment, John tried to focus. He came to the pained realisation that, in the midst of the earlier chaos, he’d never bothered to find out the specifics of where Sherlock had been all this time, what he’d had to endure, about the track marks in his arms, if Sherlock was, in fact, okay. A bitter part of him asserted that he didn’t owe the bastard any such kindness; his guilt-ridden conscience insisted that he owed Sherlock everything. Mycroft _really_ didn’t need to know about any of John’s inner demons, though, so he instead attempted to remember everything he’d seen when he was stitching up the wound ( _and how did it happen what happened with Moran didn’t even ask him…_ ) in the bathroom, anything that hinted at Sherlock’s emotional state. Deathly white skin, prominent ribs and shoulder blades, jutting collar and hip bones ( _kiss-bitten bruises blooming on pale flesh_ ) maps of old scar tissue, track marks, old, worn clothing, a haunted despair in those lovely grey eyes ( _wide in pained rejection, hands reaching out for Jo-_ )

 

John really didn’t want to think about this right now. He didn’t want to think about anything right now. He wondered where Mycroft had found the whisky; he could really go for a drink or two ( _or ten_ ) if they were going to continue this conversation.

 

“I don’t think he’s well.” Mycroft tilted his head fractionally closer, listening intently. “I mean, he tried to cover it up with his usual cold aloofness, but he was…cracking, I guess? Like, he couldn’t quite hold it together.” John intentionally didn’t mention the noose or the ill-advised sexual encounter and the role they’d played in Sherlock’s fraying control. “He had this awful look in his eyes that I can’t quite describe, like he’s been through a lot – there were a few nasty scars representing some close calls. And he’s definitely not healthy. Pale and trembling, and I don’t think he’s eaten in a long time, clearly strapped for cash – his clothes were practically rotted through with holes. And…I can’t be sure, but I think I saw fresh track marks on his arms; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was using again.”

 

Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin, taking in this new information. Listening to his own words as they were coming out of his mouth, John struggled to push down a rising sense of panic. After everything John had said and done he was sure Sherlock would be worse off than ever. Maybe he shouldn’t have left him alone. With a noose. He was about to say as much when Mycroft finally spoke again.

 

“I feared as much.” He must have seen the concern on John’s face. “It’s alright. I have people watching him at the moment; he’s perfectly safe.” He relaxed marginally, still reeling with guilt but his fears temporarily assuaged. “Thank you for telling me all of this.”

 

John felt empty and wrung out. He had hoped that this meeting with Mycroft would set him to rights; he had been sorely mistaken. He was just about to ask if he could go ( _where?_ ) when Mycroft read his thoughts again.

 

“One more question, John. How are you with all of this?”

 

The question didn’t register properly in John’s mind, so outside of the usual standard of his dealings with Mycroft. “You want to know how _I’m_ doing?”

 

Mycroft stared at him knowingly. “Yes, John. I imagine it is quite a shock for a man of such… _importance_ in your life to come back from the dead so unexpectedly after three years, especially after everything you’ve endured in that time. With Mary and all, I mean. I have no idea how one could even begin to deal with such a revelation. So, to repeat myself, how are you?”

 

He was struck dumb. He wondered how much Mycroft knew of his activities from earlier in the day and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why do you care? The only reason you’ve ever had anything to do with me is because of Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft maintained eye contact. “And so is this.”

 

For the second time that evening, John was reduced to one word. “Explain.”

 

“Sherlock is going to need looking after. As you so aptly put it, he is ‘not well.’ Normally, as his best friend, you would be the ideal man for this responsibility; you always have been in the past. I simply need to know if you’re still willing – and capable – to take on the job.”

 

Anger again, and no small amount of panic. “You expect me to just – ”

 

Mycroft shook his head emphatically. “I don’t expect anything of you, John. I’m _asking_.”

 

Well, that was certainly new. John thought about it for a second, the prospect of hunting the flat for needles, going behind Sherlock’s back and spying on him. Thought about Sherlock going behind _his_ back, deserting him and lying to him. All in the name of _protecting_ one another. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

 

“I honestly don’t know.”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips in dissatisfaction, but his reply was understanding. “Yes, I thought that might be the case. Take all of the time you need to think about it.” Mycroft stood and collected his umbrella. John made to stand as well, surprised by the abrupt end to the discussion, but Mycroft held out a hand to stop him.

 

“You’ll find it easier to deliberate this matter away from Baker Street?” John nodded, unsure what Mycroft was getting at. “I presumed as much. This suite is yours, for as long as you need it.” John gaped at him. Mycroft just smirked. “You’ll find a few changes of clothes in the wardrobe and you can take advantage of the butler service if you need anything laundered. Order as many meals as you need, but do please remember – and it’s probably pointless to mention it, knowing you – that the nation is currently on a tight budget. When you’ve come to your decision just ring the number written by the phone and Beatrice will fetch you, take you wherever you please.”

 

John was taken aback by this display of generosity. Hearing no protests to the arrangement Mycroft moved to leave the room. When he was halfway out the door, John found his voice once more.

 

“Why are you doing all of this? What if I decide I can’t go back?”

 

Mycroft turned slightly, not quite facing him. Then, softly: “I told you, I’m concerned about Sherlock. Are you really so oblivious as to not realize that your wellbeing is integral to his own?”

 

He shut the door, leaving John in stunned silence.

 

-*-

 

For a long time after Mycroft left, John sat staring into the darkness, mind blank. He wasn’t sure how long it took him to recover; everything shut down for a while, as if someone had pressed a reset button and he was waiting to reboot. As he slowly came back to himself, his eyes travelled the room around him, really seeing it for the first time. He supposed it was nice: the design of it was sleek and modern, all sharp angles and clean lines, but the furniture was cushy and comfortable. He found that he was simultaneously grateful to Mycroft for the suite, a temporary reprieve from Baker Street, and aggravated that he’d presented John with yet another dilemma.

 

 _Sherlock is going to need looking after_.

 

He pressed his face tightly into his hands and screamed his frustration. He knew Mycroft was right, that Sherlock was in precarious mental and physical health, but was that really John’s problem anymore? Did John _want_ it to be his problem? It was a terrible mess, not at all the miracle that he’d asked for at Sherlock’s grave three years previous. John sank deeper into the cushions beneath him, trying to will his body to relax and the rapid beating of his heart to subside, but he couldn’t get comfortable. As he shifted he was reminded of the state of himself: the end of his shirt was stiff, scraping uncomfortably against his lower abdomen under the waistband of his jeans, skin tight under a dried layer of semen and sweat. And he smelled awful.

 

John recalled his routine of the past several months, how taking care of his bodily needs, acknowledging only the most benign, barest of details around him had allowed him to survive under the crushing weight of his loss. Perhaps the same would work now; he tried to focus on his current physical discomfort, the soreness of his muscles, his exhaustion.

_Right: A shower, and then bed._

 

He stood slowly, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back, felt his vertebrae pop. He walked purposefully into the bedroom and began to strip, throwing his clothes uncaringly into the corner before making his way into a large, marble bathroom. The deep bath looked relaxing, but the last thing John wanted was to soak in the residue of his own filth; he wanted to be scrubbed clean, raw. Stepping into the separate shower, he turned the tap to its warmest setting, hissing as the hot water came into contact with his flesh. He methodically scoured every inch of his skin until it was pink and tender, struggling to breathe in the close, moist enclosure that was steadily filling with steam. Eventually it was too much and he pitched forward, dizzy in the heat, scrambling to turn the water to a more endurable temperature. Breathing heavily, he placed his palms firmly against the warm tiles and hung his head, allowing the comforting warmth to flow in soothing patterns down the tense muscles of his back. The blood vessels in his temples were throbbing, the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. John moved forward and leaned more heavily into the wall, pressing his face into the marble. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his torment at bay forever, so he decided to face it head on. Maybe it would be easier if he tried to discern the facts, what he knew for certain.

 

_I’m mad at him._

 

That one was obvious. Sherlock’s dishonesty made his blood boil. His choice to fake his own death John could almost handle; Moriarty had left him few other options. It was everything surrounding that choice that infuriated him: the painful lies in Sherlock’s final phone call that had left John so distraught; the fact that he chose Molly of all people to rely on, when John, a perfectly competent doctor, could just have easily aided him in falsifying the paperwork; his fling with Irene, if that was even true; staying away for three years without so much of a hint at his survival, leaving John to meet –

 

Yes, John was definitely mad. And more than a little hurt. If that were all, he could easily hate Sherlock now, abandon him to his own devices, abandon him just like he’d abandoned John. Unfortunately, life was never that simple for John Watson.

 

_I love him. So much I ache inside._

There was no use denying it: alongside all of that rage and pain John had felt utterly relieved to find Sherlock standing in that bathroom. He had felt an equal pull to throttle him and snog him senseless, could have hugged him close and never let him go again, felt Sherlock’s chest rising and falling against his own, evidence that this was all real, that John’s miracle had finally come true. A big part of him had wanted to ignore all of his questions and hurt feelings and just go back to the way things were. Well, not _exactly_ the way they were: he wanted more, everything. He wanted to kiss every single one of Sherlock’s scars, take him apart inch by inch with lips and teeth and tongue and stitch him back together as something new and beautiful and entirely John’s.

 

He still wanted all of that.

 

 _He loves me too_.

 

Doubt tried to strangle this conviction, conjuring up images of Sherlock’s sneering face and harsh words, but John shoved it aside. Sherlock hated showing weakness and had resorted to his favorite defense mechanisms of pride and condescension when John had thrown him off balance. But John had seen that mask dissolve, the truth writ large in Sherlock’s wounded expression when he realized his mistake about Mary, his willingness to let John take whatever he wanted from him without resistance, his wide eyes when John had pushed him away after their moment of intimacy. Sherlock had even started to say as much before John’s mental breakdown. John just hadn’t been ready to hear it. It reminded him too much of Mary.

 

 _I miss my wife_.

 

The day was suddenly too much; John was overcome. His knees trembled and he slid down the wall under the now-lukewarm spray of the shower, his knees thudding against the wet tile of the floor. He curled in on himself, gasping for breath.

 

Mary was at the heart of this, really. Not the fact that he’d married her: it was true that if Sherlock had never left in the first place, John would never have suffered the pain of losing her. But he also never would have known her, and that was no good; John could never wish her out of his life altogether. No, the problem was that she had _died_. If Mary were still here Sherlock’s return would be upsetting, certainly, but he would be able to cope, because she would know what to do. Mary always knew what to do. She would have held John close and brushed a sweet kiss against his forehead and promised him that everything would be okay, and he would believe her. Because she would be next to him, all gentle hands and unwavering strength, and Sherlock would still be _alive_ and everything else could sort itself out later. She would make sure that it did. But Mary was dead and Sherlock had lied and everything was broken, and John didn’t know how to fix any of it.

 

_“You loved him…What would you have done, if it was his life on the line?”_

The memory of Mary’s voice echoed inside his head. His tears tapered off and he sat up, reaching out blindly to turn off the tap with pruned fingers. He was right; Mary _always_ knew what to do.

 

Extending his aching, cramped muscles John shakily got to his feet and stumbled out of the shower, walking blindly towards the bedroom with a hand grasping at the wall for balance. He collapsed onto the king-sized bed without bothering to towel off, barely managing to crawl under the duvet as his limbs grew heavy with exhaustion.

 

John did love Sherlock. Sherlock’s life was very probably on the line. He would go home and make sure the fool didn’t die of starvation or cocaine abuse or whatever other awful, self-destructive habit he’d picked up since John had seen him last. They would work out their issues as they went along. John just needed one more night to himself before he set forth on the undoubtedly agonizing journey ahead of him. Satisfied with the decision, John allowed sleep to finally, blissfully, overtake him.

 

 -*-

 

Awareness broke upon John in stages. The slide of cool, expensive sheets against his naked skin, body sinking into a plush, pillow-top mattress, a soft light glowing beyond his closed eyelids. John blinked against the morning sun peeking through the gap in the dark curtains. He glanced over at the clock: 12:30.

 

 _Okay, so afternoon sun_.

 

John felt oddly hollow and jagged, like someone had scraped out his insides and put them back in the wrong order. He reflected on the decision he’d made as he fell asleep the night before, tried to determine if he was having any second thoughts. He hadn’t forgiven Sherlock for lying to him, not quite yet, but at the same time he couldn’t leave him on his own – he would never forgive himself if something happened to him and John wasn’t there to prevent it. The only solution was to go home, and while he was watching over him they could work on rebuilding their friendship, reestablishing the trust that had made them such a great team in the past. And John would apologize for his indiscretion last night, because that’s what it was; no matter what future relationship he might want with Sherlock, now was not the right time to pursue it. Not while they were both still reeling from Sherlock’s return. Categorizing all of his feelings now and the night before seemed to have helped: his head felt clear, he knew he was doing the right thing in going back to 221B.

 

That didn’t mean he was thrilled at the prospect.

 

Reluctantly, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Nearly twelve hours of sleep and he still wasn’t ready to face this day, didn’t know that he ever would be. Searching about for a delay his eyes landed on the room service menu. Recalling Mycroft’s admonition from the night before, he intentionally ordered an obscene amount of food from downstairs before clambering out of bed and heading for the wardrobe. As promised, there were several changes of clothes, even pants, all perfectly tailored to John’s size. As he chose a fairly nondescript outfit – grey jumper, flannel button down, jeans – John tried not to think about how, precisely,Mycroft knew his measurements.

 

After gorging himself ( _when’s the last time I ate? Christ, I’m turning into him_ ), John finally rang the number Mycroft had left next to the phone. There was no sense putting it off any longer. After two rings, John recognized the clipped, efficient tones of Mycroft’s assistant, Beatrice.

 

“Are you ready for me, then?”

 

John appreciated that she didn’t try to be pleasant; he didn’t think he had the energy. “Er – yes. Whenever you are.”

 

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” That was that.

 

Not knowing what else to do, John switched on the telly, flicking through the channels without paying attention to the programming. He switched it off. As the minutes went by, John got more and more restless, resorted to pacing fitfully about the room. He wasn’t having a change of heart, he felt strongly that he had made the right choice; he just didn’t know how Sherlock would respond to that choice, how it would all play out over the course of the next several months. The trill of the phone nearly gave him a heart attack. Clumsy, hands shaking, he answered it.

 

“I’m down front.” Click.

 

John held the phone for a few seconds after Beatrice disconnected, attempting to calm his nerves. He returned it to its cradle and clenched his fists tightly once, twice, before setting his shoulders and striding resolutely toward the door. He was halfway to the lifts when he realized he’d forgotten his shirt. He couldn’t care less about the stained jeans and pants, but the shirt had been a gift from Mary, and no matter how “worn” Sherlock said it appeared, John wasn’t ready to give it up. Muttering a thank you to whatever luck had prompted him to grab the room key, he rushed back to retrieve it and shoved it into an empty rubbish bag. Beatrice was leaning against the side of the Jaguar, tapping her foot impatiently, when John finally made it outside.

 

“I, um, I didn’t check out or anythi – ”

 

Beatrice was already in the car and sliding across to make room for John. “It’s all taken care of. Destination?”

 

John pressed his lips together and slid into the car behind her. “221 Baker Street.”

 

Beatrice smiled slightly as she relayed the information to the driver, resuming her typing on her mobile. John wondered if she was texting Mycroft. He didn’t have to wonder for long. After a few seconds, the phone buzzed and she handed it straight to John without answering it.

 

“It’s for you.”

 

John bit back his questions; he knew it was pointless, and he was growing rather tired of constantly making a fool of himself in front of Beatrice, especially when he’d known her for less than twenty-four hours.

 

“Um, hello?”

 

“John, I was glad to see you didn’t make any attempt to restrain your appetite this morning. I hope you found the meal satisfactory?”

 

“The scones were a bit stale. You might want to ask for a refund. If they’ll do that, that is; I ate them all anyway.”

 

He could practically hear Mycroft’s eyeroll. “Ever the mature adult, Doctor. Beatrice tells me that you’ve made a decision; I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so quickly, but I’m pleased with the result. I knew I could count on you. We’ll need to carefully plan our approach, now that you –“

 

“No.”

 

There was a tense pause. “I’m sorry?”

 

John cleared his throat uncomfortably but he stood his ground. “I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll make sure he’s eating – force-feed him if I have to – and I’ll bungle his meticulous yet invisible system of organization hunting for drugs and used needles. But he’ll know exactly what I’m up to the whole time; I’m not going to lie to him, that’s not how I work. And I won’t go behind his back to you. If you want to check on him for yourself, feel free. But I’m not your spy, and I’m not going to help you avoid him just because you feel too damn guilty to face him yourself.”

 

More silence. Then Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. “Still the loyal lapdog, after all he’s done?”

 

This – this spirit of spiteful confrontation – was exactly what John was missing last night. He felt a cold-hearted, sure confidence when he snapped back, “And you’re still an absolute shite older brother. Wonder why he doesn’t trust you?”

 

John hung up on him and handed the phone calmly back to Beatrice, who looked appalled. It didn’t ring again.

 

-*-

 

_221_

 

John studied the numbers on the door until they went out of focus. He had been standing on the front step, staring at the closed door in front of him, for nearly ten minutes, willing himself to go inside. The decision to return had seemed so easy in the downy comfort of the soft bed at Claridge’s. Now, it reminded him a bit of boarding that first plane to Afghanistan. Perhaps the comparison was fitting: if last night was anything to go by, the next few months with Sherlock were going to be a bit of a war. If Sherlock would even stay that long, after the way John had treated him.

 

_You’ll never know if you don’t fucking go inside. Stop being such a coward and open the damn door._

 

Shoving the key roughly into the lock and turning it, John pushed the door open and headed quickly for the stairs before he lost his nerve. His steps slowed abruptly as he got closer to the flat – the sound of raised voices was drifting down towards him. Cautiously, he crept up the staircase, trying to make out what was being said. When he reached the landing the door to the sitting room was open halfway; without announcing his presence or entering, John observed the scene unfolding inside.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the sofa, face his usual impassive mask. He still looked like shit: his eyes sunken and vacant, sweat beading on his forehead under that terrible haircut, jaw visibly clenched where it was freshly shaved, smooth once more ( _stubble rasping against John’s jaw as he – not now_ ). He was clearly in pain, slightly hunched and trembling, with one arm clamped over his stomach and the other hand clenched against a shaking knee. _Definitely withdrawal, then_. At least now he was dressed properly, wearing a pair of his own old trousers that John and Mrs. Hudson had never bothered to get rid of and the aubergine shirt that John may have hidden in the back of the closet when they were filling the charity bins ( _always been my favorite_ ). Even though the once tight clothes practically swallowed him, they did cause him to appear more like the old Sherlock Holmes, which John found strangely comforting. Under his anxiety John noticed with a swell of something like affection that Gladstone was curled happily around Sherlock’s ankles. John tore his attention away from Sherlock – there would be more time to dissect his appearance later – and tried to understand what was happening in the rest of the room.

 

Mrs. Hudson was standing next to the sofa with one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders and tears streaming down a stern face, glaring at Greg Lestrade, the primary source of all the commotion. Sherlock was staring at Greg as well, expression unreadable. Greg stood behind Sherlock’s armchair, gripping the back with one hand while the other gestured widely in time with his shouting, aimed alternately at Sherlock and Molly, the latter of whom looked completely devastated, crying freely as she clutched wildly at the back of Mary’s chair.

 

“ – nearly lost my job for fuck’s sake, Molly!”

 

“Greg, please, I’m so sorr-“

 

“No – I don’t even want to hear it! And _you_ – what were you thinking, dragging her into this, knowing how she felt about you? Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

 

“Lestrade, as I explained – ”

 

“Yeah, right, sure. It was _all_ for the best, lying to keep us safe – well, what about John, then? He’s been a bloody wreck without you!”

 

The mention of his name made John uncomfortable; they hadn’t noticed him. He suddenly felt like he was spying, which, he reminded himself, he had just resolutely refused to do for Mycroft. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he cleared his throat awkwardly. All eyes turned to face him at once; Greg froze in the middle of his heated diatribe. Sherlock made like he was going to stand but seemed to think better of it, settling back into the seat of the divan with sagging shoulders. Silence ruled for several moments, the only sound Gladstone’s happy panting as he trundled over to sniff and paw at the hem of John’s pants in greeting. John couldn’t stand it.

 

“Well I see you’re all up to speed.”

 

Greg huffed out a dry laugh and ran a hand through his hair, the harsh glint in his eyes softening as he made eye contact with John. He spared one glance at Sherlock before heading towards the door. He pointedly didn’t look at his fiancé. Sliding past John out to the landing he paused and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.

 

“Pub tonight?”

 

John laughed genuinely, if inappropriately, at that – he could always count on Lestrade to bypass all of the emotional drama. Still, he could hear the quiet desperation in the request. After all Greg had done for him in the past few years, and after his own unwarranted maliciousness the day before, John would _make_ the time to be there for his friend.

 

“Sure, text me.”

 

Greg squeezed John’s shoulder in acknowledgement before storming out of the flat, leaving behind a brokenhearted Molly. Frantic to catch him she began to shove past John out the door, when, catching John’s eyes, hers widened impossibly more. Fresh tears spilled over as she realised that she owed him an explanation as well.

 

“Jesus, John – I don’t even know where to begin, I’m so, _so_ sorry, please forgiv-”

 

John cut her off. He wasn’t exactly happy with her at the moment, but he wasn’t nearly as mad at her as he expected to be; more than anything he pitied her for getting swept up in all of this, all because of a stupid crush. He ached for Greg, who was undoubtedly wondering if her heart truly ever belonged to him with Sherlock still in the picture. John couldn’t deal with her right now.

 

“Molly, just go after him. You and I can talk later.”

 

She clamped her mouth shut, looked uncertain. Nodding, she seemed to decide that Greg was the more pressing problem and rushed down the stairs, urgently shouting his name.

 

That just left him, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson who, bless her, coughed slightly and claimed that she had some things to attend to. She hugged Sherlock more tightly to her and whispered something that John couldn’t hear, prompting Sherlock’s arms to circle her in return. John raised an eyebrow in question as she moved past him out of the flat, but she just squeezed his shoulder and smiled gently, shutting the door behind her on the way out. Sherlock and John were, once again, alone.

 

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them speaking. John tried to find a place to sit, knowing that they were in for a lengthy, uncomfortable discussion, but nowhere seemed welcoming: on the divan was too close to Sherlock, especially after what had occurred on that very spot the day before, and he still couldn’t bring himself to sit on Mary’s chair. Deciding that Sherlock’s old chair was the lesser of all evils, John pulled it over in front of the sofa directly across from its owner.

 

John thought, helplessly, that it would have been prudent to plan his words ahead of time. Both of them sat in silence for a while, Sherlock analyzing John with his intense, calculating look while John refused to meet his eyes. After several long minutes, John thought it was getting a bit ridiculous; opting to just dive right in, figuring it couldn’t possibly get any worse, he opened his mouth to tell Sherlock everything he had worked out while he was away.

 

“Look, last night I went – ”

 

“That wretched – ”

 

Two sets of mouths snapped closed; they had both started speaking at the same time. Hoping that Sherlock might give him any insight into his current state of mind, John gestured for him to continue. Sherlock swallowed thickly.

 

“I was just saying, that wretched dog of yours kept me up for half the night with all of his scratching and barking.” His tone was forcibly cavalier, too exaggerated to be authentic. He shot a look of extreme disdain at Gladstone, who was once again lying on his feet, nose inching up his trouser leg to lick at Sherlock’s bare ankles. “Eventually I had to let him out of his cage and he charged his way into my bed, where he proceeded to take his half of the middle and ruin my sheets with all of his snot and saliva.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily but made no effort to kick the dog away from him. “Then I was forced to take the annoying thing out for a walk, just to calm him down so that I could have a moment’s peace to think.”

 

It took all of John’s effort to suppress a fond smile, in spite of all the tension between them in that moment. Sherlock’s words may have expressed irritation with the creature, but John could read between the lines; Gladstone’s legs were far too stumpy to jump up into Sherlock’s bed on his own. If the dog slept there, then Sherlock had put him there. Same went for the walk: Sherlock never did anything he didn’t want to do, or absolutely need to do, and there were plenty of other ways to get Gladstone to shut up when he was being too demanding (biscuits, for one, of which there were plenty, and in plain sight). His current frown was half-hearted at best; he was clearly enjoying Gladstone’s attention, but, being Sherlock, couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

 

“Yes, he’s a bit of a brat. Mary spoiled him something dreadful.”

 

Sherlock flinched at Mary’s name, darted apologetic eyes up to John’s face. “Well, he wasn’t _too_ unmanageable.”

 

More tense silence, broken by a heavy sigh from Sherlock.

 

“John, please forgive me for all I said last night. I was callous and…wrong. I am sorry.”

 

John took a minute to process that, choosing his response carefully; if all went well, he prayed that they could somehow manage to avoid having another row.

 

“I…appreciate that, Sherlock. I really do. It’s just going to take time for me to forgive you on this one. For everything.”

 

Sherlock looked upset but resigned. John took a deep breath through his nose before starting in on all he’d mulled over in the shower last night.

 

“I’m sorry too, you know.” Sherlock’s head snapped up, startled. “For running away, after. I was mad at you – still am a bit – but I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and he looked away, but his voice was mostly level when he replied. “I didn’t know if you were going to return.”

 

John sighed. “I didn’t either. What we did was wrong…” Sherlock was indignant, mouth open and clearly ready to express adamant protest. “…no, listen to me, it was. I won’t deny that I wanted it, _have_ wanted it for a long time” – _harsh press of lips tongues twining rough brick against his back_ – “but it never should have happened like that. And it can’t happen again, not until we work things out between us. Not until _I_ figure out how I feel about everything that’s happened these past few years.”

 

Sherlock flopped back into the sofa, both arms now wrapped tightly around his stomach and mouth twisted in an unhappy grimace. He said nothing, so John continued.

 

“I know you’re an impatient sod, and this isn’t going to be easy for either of us. But I want us to be friends again, and sex makes everything such an ungodly mess. There’s no sense complicating things even further than they already are. We can reevaluate it later, if we want; let’s just focus on trusting each other again.”

 

“I still trust you,” Sherlock said, somehow both insecure and belligerent at the same time.

 

“Me trusting you, then. You earning that trust.” Sherlock heaved a sigh of exasperation – _Dull!_ – but  reluctantly agreed. It was an okay start. John decided to keep going.

 

“In keeping with that trust, I think you should know that Mycroft is the one who picked me up last night – ”

 

Sherlock snorted, “Obviously.”

 

“ – And he asked me to keep an eye on you.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his tacit question clear. “I said no.”

 

The other eyebrow went up. “You’re not going to keep an eye on me?”

 

Now John was exasperated. “Of course I am, you git. Just not for him. I’m not his errand boy; besides, he has the whole secret service at his call, the fuck’s he need me for?”

 

Sherlock’s smile was proud, but it only lasted a second. He turned away again. “Mycroft always spies on me, but why do you think I need looking after? I told you, John, this whole business with Moriarty is done. I don’t need protection.”

 

Now for the tricky part. John proceeded with caution. “I know you’re probably safe from the criminal underworld. I was thinking more about your own…personal wellbeing.”

 

Sherlock stared stubbornly at Gladstone. “I don’t know what you could mean.”

 

It was like dealing with a child. “Let me spell it out for you, then. You’re going to eat at least 2500 calories a day until we get you up to a proper weight, and no more drugs.” Realizing he sounded a bit like an overbearing mother, he added, “I’ll ground you if I have to.”

 

Sherlock hunched in on himself, tone petulant. “I’m not currently _on_ any drugs.”

 

“Not technically, I suppose. But I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I recognize withdrawal when I see it, and I’ve seen men cave to it time and time again. We’re going to make sure you stay off the stuff for good.”

 

His scowl deepened. “For God’s sake I’m a nearly middle-aged man, don’t I get any say in this?”

 

“No.”

 

A pregnant pause. “ _Fine._ ”

 

John half expected him to twist and face the back of the couch, shutting John out like he always had in the past. To his credit, Sherlock resisted the impulse, even if he continued to fix his eyes moodily on Gladstone, out the window, anywhere but at John.

 

“Any other demands, mother?”

 

This bickering, though not pleasant, was something of a relief; that they could still do this, even if the subject at hand was terrifying and awful, gave John hope that everything would turn out alright in the end. He wondered if the light-heartedness could last at least until the end of the conversation.

 

“Actually, yes. In the midst of my, well, reaction last night, I didn’t really give you a full chance to tell your story. What have you been up to, exactly? How have you been?”

 

Sherlock looked up at John then, brow wrinkled in confused surprise. Grey eyes shifted quickly back and forth, like they always did when he was trying to solve a difficult problem in his head. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a nervous tic, new. When he began to speak it was slowly, warily, as if he were carefully measuring each word.

 

“As I said, I was…tracking Moriarty’s network. I was never in one place for long; his enterprise was more vast than I had foreseen. After London, there was France, Germany, Argentina, Thailand, New York, practically the whole globe. I followed them and …drew them out, one at a time and…” His head tilted to the side, considering. “Took care of it. Moran – Sebastian Moran, ex-military, dishonourable discharge – was the last, back here in London, and I finished it last night.”

 

Aside from a few minor details, it wasn’t much more to go on. John quelled his mounting aggravation and tried to remain detached, patient.

 

“Yes, okay. But _how_ did you draw them out? What were you actually doing?”

 

“Does it matter?” A shadow seemed to pass over his features; Sherlock looked defensive, dangerous. John should have taken it as the warning it was.

 

“Yes, it does to me. Please, Sherlock, trust, remember? Can’t you give me anything more?”

 

Sherlock’s leg was rapidly bobbing up and down, a substitute for the pacing that he was feeling too ill, stricken by symptoms of withdrawal, to manage. He let go of his stomach and allowed his hands to twitch fretfully on his thighs.

 

“They couldn’t know I was alive; I had to assume that Moriarty’s final orders were still in place, and I couldn’t risk the danger to you. I went undercover. Sometimes I snuck into their homes, planted evidence to ensure a lengthy prison sentence or retaliation from a rival criminal. Other times I joined them in their activities, looking for the proper moment to bring the deal crashing down around them, ruining them financially. Occasionally, just a few times, I had to resort to more direct, more…” He waved a hand in the air, searching for a euphemism. “More permanent solutions.”

 

John’s blood ran cold; Sherlock’s tone had been completely indifferent on that last, as if killing a man was a mere chore. He suddenly wasn’t so sure that he wanted to know any more. But they had come this far, and John wasn’t about to back down now, not when they were making some progress. Another question sprung from an ugly, jealous corner of his mind. Compared to what they were currently talking about, it was trivial, but John grasped onto the change in subject with dark gratitude.

 

“And what about Irene? Where did she fit in?”

 

A brief hesitation. “She knew what one of them liked. She agreed to assist me after I had helped her; that was when I got shot.” He motioned toward his abdomen, where John knew the scar rested under his shirt. “I stayed with her while I recovered and we became…close.”

 

John’s skin was crawling. The thought of anyone else – especially her – with Sherlock, _touching_ Sherlock both revolted and enraged him. A vicious curiosity overwhelmed him: he wanted every detail, to know what had made Sherlock squirm, beg (“ _I’ll have you on this desk until you beg for mercy, twice”),_ every little thing she’d done wrong, all the ways she couldn’t ( _hopefully_ ) measure up to John. He should have known better than to bring it up; he couldn’t be reasonable when talking about her.

 

“Close, huh? Did you _love_ her?”

 

“No.” There was no hesitation that time. Sherlock offered no further clarification. John was getting angry again.

 

“Then why sleep with her?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Are you _really_ going to stand there and tell me that you loved every woman you’ve ever taken to bed?”

 

John couldn’t think of an adequate retort; Sherlock had a point. “Alright, fine then. How long did it last? Did she come back to London with you?”

 

“A few months, and no – is this seriously the most pressing question on your mind, John?” Sherlock’s tone was scornful, but he looked relieved. John resented him for making him the irrational one. His desire from earlier, to calmly discuss their situation, vanished; this was about winning now.

 

“No, you’re right. Tell me more about Moran, then. Is he one of them that you ruined, or did you ‘take care of him,’ how did you put it, ‘permanently?’”

 

Sherlock growled, nearly literally, at that, “What does it matter how it was taken care of – the thing is done!”

 

“Because you’re still leaving things out, Sherlock. Why can’t you just _tell_ me?”

 

Something in Sherlock seemed to snap at that; it reminded John of the scene he’d made by the fire in Dartmoor.

 

“Why do you insist on asking questions you don’t want, don’t need, to know the answer to? I dismantled the network, I left Irene – gladly, I might add – and now I’m back and willing to let you police my life for however long it takes you to get over your trivial emotional nonsense. So can we please just drop it?”

 

He was perched on the edge of the sofa again, eyes dark and shining; he looked strikingly like a feral cat, ready to pounce. John was fuming, propelled from his seat and shouting louder than ever before. So much for not fighting.

 

“ _Trivial emotional nonsense_? I mourned over you for three fucking years, Sherlock, the least you can do is give me all of the bloody details about what I missed out on!”

 

John immediately realized he’d made an error when Sherlock sprang to his feet and crossed the distance between them in two long, steady strides. Gladstone jumped up and skittered away, unnerved by the new tension between the two men.

 

“Do you really want all of the _bloody_ details, John? Are you positive?”

 

Sherlock continued advancing until the backs of John’s knees hit the chair and he fell back into the seat. Sherlock loomed over him, a predatory gleam in his eyes, teeth bared, caging John in with a hand on each arm of the chair, face inches from John’s own. John gulped, fear tightening his vocal chords and strangling his voice. Sherlock was practically hissing.

 

“Very well, then. What would you like to know? Not simply what it’s like to kill a man, surely, you were at war, you know. Maybe what it’s like to feel a man’s neck snap underneath your hands? To watch the life fade out of a person’s eyes as you feel their trachea collapse under your body weight, knee pressed against their throat?” Sherlock looked ferocious. John’s eyes widened in horror. “No? Not bloody enough for you? Well, how about Moran then. He expected me, came at me with a knife. I barely managed to get it away from him, you saw the injury, jammed it into the hard muscles of his neck, all the way to the hilt. Felt every tendon snap as I pulled it forward, felt the give as it sliced through his jugular vein and carotid artery, felt the warmth of his blood as it sprayed over my face and hands.” John’s stomach lurched; Sherlock eyes were far away, as if he were in another room, not looking at John at all. “And do you know what I thought of, then, all of those times I was forced to take a life? You, John; not hell or prison or _morality_ , you, in the sights of a sniper, about to die. And I would _gladly_ do it all again.” John couldn’t catch his breath, head swimming and vision blurred. Sherlock leaned closer still, whispered in John’s ear –

 

“Still feel like you _missed out_?”

 

John barely managed to shove Sherlock out of the way, dash to the kitchen sink before he started retching. He thought he heard the front door slam as he passed out.


	7. Never knew daylight could be so violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction of abandoning Sherlock, not after his whole-hearted rejection of Mycroft’s assistance, so he returned to Baker Street that night and settled in for the long haul, fortified himself against the battles he knew he would face in the coming weeks. He figured that making sure the bloody idiot didn’t kill himself would be a bit of a nightmare, but nothing could have prepared John for just how ill-equipped he was to cope with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, feedback is very much appreciated! Story/chapter titles still from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine.

John frowned, squinting at the two, blurry shot glasses of clear liquid swimming in his vision; he attempted to discern which he was meant to be drinking. Reaching out, he closed his fingers around a mirage, in the process managing to tip the real glass over and spill its contents all over the glossy oak counter in front of him. He and Lestrade burst into a fit of undignified giggles, clutching at one another to keep from tumbling to the floor. Greg righted the glass and poured him another. John couldn’t remember if it was his eight or ninth; he had lost track a while ago.

 

This was the fifteenth time in six weeks that he and Greg had drunk themselves into oblivion. They would meet on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday as soon as Lestrade finished at the Yard and stay until closing time, or until they were kicked out, whichever came first ( _usually the latter_ ). They were on their third pub; after a couple of weekends of shattered glassware and broken barstools, the previous two had decided John and Greg were bad for business and banned them. From the look on this bartender’s face as he mopped up their mess, next weekend they would be finding their fourth venue. Distantly, John thought he should be worried about the pattern, given Harry and their family history, but it was easier to clink his now full glass against Greg’s and toss the burning liquid down his throat. As he slammed the empty down on the bar and motioned for another, he couldn’t help reflecting on the current state of his life; it was easier to do when he was in this condition. He liked inhabiting this foggy, numb dreamworld, all soft and dull around the edges where his own was sharp and raw and so painfully _real_.

 

John and Greg had been doing this ever since Sherlock came back six weeks ago. He had awoken late in the afternoon after he and Sherlock’s fight, alone on the floor of the kitchen, mouth sour and head throbbing where he’d knocked it against a cabinet handle on his way down. Sherlock was nowhere to be found; John had no idea how to track him, what number he might be using, whom he might be in contact with in the city. John spent most of that evening staring out of the front window, willing Sherlock to come home and turning his final words over in his mind.

 

 _Still feel like you missed out_?

 

The truth was, up until that afternoon, John _had_ felt like he’d missed out; although certainly not the primary reason he was furious with Sherlock’s subterfuge – grief and betrayal topped that list – a petty part of him had been horribly jealous that Sherlock had left him out of one of his grandest adventures to date. The truth, that he had been forced to murder men in cold blood, face God knows how many other atrocities too dreadful to share with John, made his heart clench in horrified pity: he wanted to apologize for his earlier temper, hold Sherlock close and tell him it was going to be okay now, that he didn’t have to tell John anything he didn’t want to, that there was no reason to be ashamed of surviving, of helping others to survive. He tried to hold onto these sympathetic impulses when Sherlock came crashing in the front door at 7:45 PM and revealed what he’d been up to all day.

 

He didn’t tell John where he’d been in so many words, but he didn’t have to; John had just enough experience treating cocaine abusers to recognize all of the signs of a binge: manic alertness, blown pupils, a thin sheen of sweat covering a euphoric expression that immediately fell when it met John’s pained disappointment. Less than twelve hours since his defiant promise to Mycroft, and Sherlock had already gotten one past him. They stood for a moment, frozen in time, staring at one another blankly, until Sherlock turned on his heel and slammed his bedroom door in John’s face, bolting the lock for good measure. Fifteen minutes later, when Greg texted him the address of a pub just a few blocks away, John jumped at the opportunity to escape the overpowering silence, echoing with his dismal failure.

 

That first night, John had expected things to be unbelievably awkward between him and Greg, unsure where they stood after his remarks to Molly. Hoping to forego another emotionally overwrought altercation, he apologized upon approaching the bar, but Greg waved it off “in light of recent events” and said that he and John were on the same side now. When John asked him to clarify what he meant by “side,” he raised his eyebrows as if it should be obvious:

 

“People who’ve been fucked over by Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Then he’d ordered a bottle of cheap vodka and the night’s conversation went a little fuzzy from there. The gist of it, to the best of John’s recollection, was this: Sherlock Holmes was a lying, fucking arsehole who ruined lives, Greg would never, ever allow him to set foot in New Scotland Yard again (except as a suspect), and he was currently crashing on a lilo in the front room of some mates from the force, the wedding in limbo and a devastated Molly alone at their new flat. John mostly nodded along during Greg’s diatribe, unsure how to respond: he felt genuinely sorry for Molly and thought he should try to defend her, but he was far too relieved by Greg’s forgiveness to risk it. A few shots in, Greg offered to let John come and stay at the bachelor pad as well, if he, too, needed an escape; John liked to think his hesitation in declining was due only to his slowed mental faculties and not any sense of cowardice.

 

John wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction of abandoning Sherlock, not after his whole-hearted rejection of Mycroft’s assistance, so he returned to Baker Street that night and settled in for the long haul, fortified himself against the battles he knew he would face in the coming weeks. He figured that making sure the bloody idiot didn’t kill himself would be a bit of a nightmare, but nothing could have prepared John for just how ill-equipped he was to cope with it.

 

The two men, once such close friends, now couldn’t speak two words to each other without it escalating into a violent row. They no longer engaged in shouting matches over Sherlock’s three-year absence; they skirted that subject altogether, along with Mary, Irene, the ghosts of bloodied memories flickering behind Sherlock’s eyes, their foolish sexual confrontation. No, they never fought about any of the burning, critical issues driving them apart, and John badly wished that they would. Because now, _every_ fight, every mundane irritation that had prompted harmless, friendly bickering in the past was dangerously heightened, driven by all of the hurt, _hatelovelustjealousyprideanger_ that they refused to voice. When John chucked the empty milk container at Sherlock’s head, screaming about doing the shopping _for once in your selfish fucking life,_ he (and Sherlock) both knew he was _really_ screaming about months and years of shopping by himself, after Sherlock and after Mary, desolately wandering the aisles of Tesco wondering what was really the point anymore if he was going to be eating alone for the rest of his life. And when Sherlock railed at John for ruining one of the new experiments Molly had helped him set up in the cooler, demanding _why can’t you just leave well enough alone_ , they both knew he was really pleading with John to forgive him already, to please just try to _imagine everything I’ve been through for you._

 

Sherlock’s cocaine dependence made everything orders of magnitude more difficult. On the days when he couldn’t get the drug, because John was a step ahead of him and had tossed his supply, or he couldn’t get in touch with his dealer, or because _someone_ (Mycroft) had mysteriously made all of his other contacts disappear, he was inconsolable in his desperate need for a high. He would spend hours heaving over the toilet, curled in the fetal position on the bathroom floor scratching repeatedly at his tingling skin. He refused all of John’s offers of comfort, choosing instead to cast mutinous looks in his direction and curse colorfully under his breath; in the present, John’s alcohol-soaked brain remembered Sherlock’s most recent, favourite insult was “hypocrite,” which stung especially because it was arguably true. On the days he managed to slip past John and Mycroft’s nets ( _looks like they were working together anyway, in the end_ ), he was high-strung to the extreme, conducting endless, seemingly nonsensical tests, supplies provided by Molly, snapping in nervous aggravation when anyone, especially John with his aura of disappointment, interfered with his precise arrangements.

 

John and Molly still hadn’t spoken about the status of their friendship, but he was secretly grateful to her for her continued, unwavering support of Sherlock when most everyone else couldn’t stand to be around him for longer than five minutes. She would come and sit with him quietly in the kitchen at Baker Street to assist him in his studies, occasionally prompting him, gently, to take a break and pop down to Mrs. Hudson’s with her for tea or supper. When he needed the equipment at Bart’s she still graciously allowed him into her lab, earning John’s respect by, whenever possible, coming to pick him up to ensure he didn’t make any suspicious detours along the way. John didn’t know what Sherlock would do without her: Lestrade wasn’t giving him any cases, and Mycroft, from what he gathered secondhand from eavesdropping on a few irate phone calls, had not yet finished officially bringing Sherlock back from the dead. It was almost impossible for him to leave the flat without some sort of disguise, lest he attract the attention of the press before he was ready to announce his return; his hair was still short, but was starting to curl again at the ends and was back to its original dark hue, making it probable that somebody would recognize him. Sherlock never could stand being cooped up for too long a period of time without becoming unbearable company, and with the way every moment, every conversation was now uncomfortably charged, it would have been damn near _impossible_ to live with him if it weren’t for Molly’s constant, patient intervention. John enviously wondered how she could forgive the man so easily when her own life was in such shambles because of him.

 

John’s personal life was practically nonexistent – his days were composed of worrying about Sherlock, spying on Sherlock, and fighting with Sherlock, his only escape these weekends out with Greg when he allowed himself to forget about his responsibilities for a few hours each night. He was starting to run out of money; the anonymous donations to his bank account had ceased the day of he and Mycroft’s falling out. Mrs. Hudson seemed content to let him stay there without paying rent, but after everything she was already doing – cooking practically all of their meals, putting up with the frequent yelling reverberating through her walls, entertaining Sherlock when Molly was unavailable and John was too busy snooping around the flat for secret stashes – he couldn’t, in good conscience, allow it to continue much longer. He’d been trying for a few weeks now to come up with any way of making money that would allow him to still keep a near-constant eye on Sherlock’s comings and goings, but nothing came to mind. He felt like the walls were closing in on him; it was all becoming too much to handle. Most nights he went to bed with an anxious churning in his stomach as he agonized over how he would get through the next day, how he could be expected to deal with all of this _and_ the still fresh, sharp grief of losing his wife. Thinking about Mary always prompted a surge of guilt – he hadn’t had the time or energy to visit her grave since this whole thing had started. It wouldn’t pain him so much if he felt that he was making any headway with Sherlock. As it was, he felt like he was letting her down in every way imaginable. Many nights he remembered, with a stab of simultaneous regret and shame, a noose, how close he’d come to not having to deal with any of this at all.

 

“Alright?”

 

John sluggishly shook himself back to the present, unsteadily met Greg’s unfocused, concerned eyes. He hesitated in responding; Greg knew he wasn’t alright, neither of them were, but Sherlock was a subject they had resolutely avoided in the past several weeks. John didn’t know how Greg felt about the fact that he remained by Sherlock’s side in spite of all the man had done to both of them, wasn’t sure how Greg would react to his near-masochistic loyalty to the detective. He didn’t want to say anything that would push Greg away, because Greg was the only uncomplicated friendship he had left; these nights at the pub were the only moments of levity John had in his life, and possibly the only thing keeping him sane. He also thought he might burst if he didn’t vocalize some of the unhealthy, anguished thoughts burning in his skull. He opted for the simple truth.

 

“No, absolutely not. I couldn’t be further from alright.” His words were terribly slurred, breath shaking with unshed tears and nervous laughter.

 

Greg studied him for a moment, somber expression only slightly undermined by his drooping eyelids, heavy with drunkenness. “You could just walk away, John. Nobody would blame you.”

 

“I would blame myself. I’ve had quite enough of that in the past three years.” Greg looked away. “I…just…I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

 

Greg stared straight ahead for a while, didn’t say anything. John studied his profile: his hair was far greyer than it had been a month ago, face lined more deeply. He looked older without Molly’s positive energy and luminous smile reflecting off of him, smoothing away the effects of a lifetime of stressful cases and failed relationships. He sighed and turned slowly back to John, eyes shadowed by grief, and awkwardly patted his forearm.

 

“Neither do I.”

 

It shouldn’t have been comforting that Greg’s life was clearly just as fucked as John’s. Somehow, it was; even if it was shared depression uniting them, John relished the fact that, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely alone.

 

-*-

 

_“Don’t worry, ‘bout a thing. ‘Cause every little thing, gonna be all right…”_

 

John slammed his fist onto the snooze button and glared at the clock radio as if the song had personally affronted him. His head was pounding and his stomach ached; it may have been full day since his last bender with Greg, but he didn’t think Sunday had been enough time to recover from the hangover. It was 7:30 AM. He had an appointment with Ella in an hour and a half, his first in over a year. Harry had forced him to make it when he’d met with her briefly a couple of weeks ago to update her on the insanity of his life. She had listened to the story without speaking, face inscrutable. When he had finished she hadn’t so much as blinked before stealing his mobile and punching in the number for Ella’s receptionist. Harry said that it had taken John forcing _her_ to meet Ella to finally face her demons and work through them, and she would be just as obnoxious until he did the same. John had been so caught up in his own grief that he hadn’t even known she’d stopped drinking, was shocked to discover that she was nearly six months sober; he tried to apologize for ignoring her, but Harry shushed him irritably and thrust the ringing phone into his face. She made him promise to meet with her at least once every three months so she could fuss over him, if he wanted to make it up to her. As John worked up the nerve to get out of bed and prepare for the stilted conversation he always had with Ella, he wondered when the hell _Harry_ had become the responsible sibling.

 

No matter how much he wished for time to slow down, it seemed barely minutes later that he was sitting in the chair across from his therapist, debating spending the entire hour in silence just to see if he could break her professional tranquility and make her squirm. It didn’t look promising; already ten minutes had passed and she still wore that same, placid expression on her face as always, waiting for him to make the first move. Exhausted by the tense silence that usually permeated Baker Street these days, John cracked first.

 

“I tried to kill myself, a few weeks ago.”

 

If she was surprised she didn’t show it. Her brow crinkled in sympathy and she sat forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “Do you want talk about why?”

 

It was John’s turn to be surprised: he discovered that he actually _did_ want to talk about it. The urge was unexpected and uncontrollable, like a dam had been released and he couldn’t stop the flow of words from gushing out, everything he’d been holding back for the past five months. He told her all about Mary, about the noose, about the confusing, mortifying sex he’d had with Sherlock, about the constant fighting and the drinking and the cocaine. He yelled, he cried, he even laughed a few times when it seemed his mounting hysteria was on the verge of destroying him from the inside out. When he was done, he collapsed back into his seat and tried to catch his breath. It felt like he’d run a marathon and he was surprised she hadn’t cut him off; surely they’d run well past the hour mark. He was shocked to discover that there were still twenty minutes left on the clock.

 

Ella had been scribbling furiously in her notes from beginning to end. She read over what she’d written a few times and set it aside, clasping her hands together and meeting John’s gaze head-on.

 

“Please stop me if I say anything inaccurate, alright?” John agreed warily. “What I’m hearing is that you’re feeling overwhelmed.” He nodded his assent. “You love your friend dearly, but given all that’s happened in your own life, and his part in it, you don’t feel like you can take on full responsibility for his well-being at the moment in addition to your own.” Another confirmation; he wasn’t sure where this was going. “Then don’t.”

 

He started to object – that wasn’t an option. She reached out a hand in a silent request to allow her to continue. Begrudgingly, he acquiesced.

 

“I’m not saying to cease contact with him, or to abandon him. But you can’t _fix_ him, John. Sherlock is a grown man, and that’s a choice that he’s going to have to make for himself – ”

 

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Please, tell me what I _can_ do, because I’m at a complete loss.”

 

She leaned forward again, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You focus on the problems that you _can_ fix, you work on healing yourself. Make a list of all the possible solutions to the problems in your own life.”

 

He scoffed derisively at that. “Like what?”

 

“How about finding a job? You’ve already said Molly and Mrs. Hudson are happy to look after him when you can’t. Trust them to continue to do so and find an outlet for your own energy.” When he didn’t offer a scathing retort, she smiled gently and added, “Speaking of outlets, perhaps find a different method of stress relief for you and your friend Greg as well. You know the drinking is bad for you.”

 

She was making sense; it pissed John off. “Okay, so I take care of myself, that’s all well and good. What then? Do I just continue to watch my best friend in the whole world, a man I’m quite likely in love with no matter how unhealthy it is, deteriorate in front of me?”

 

Ella took several minutes to consider the question. There were only ten minutes left in the appointment. John had a vindictive moment of triumph where he thought he’d stumped her, angry that this woman thought she had all of the answers when, from his perspective, everything seemed hopelessly beyond repair. It didn’t last for long.

 

“I’m not saying that it will be easy, John. There isn’t a lot of precedent for this situation. But if you’re healthier, happier, don’t you think it will be easier to talk to him? Easier to get him to listen? You can’t support him until you have a support system for yourself.”

 

_Are you really so oblivious as to not realize that your wellbeing is integral to his own?_

John swallowed several times, unable to mount an argument against that logic. It had felt selfish these last weeks, focusing on himself when Sherlock was in such a bad way and their fragile friendship was crumbling around them. But the constant hovering, picking through Sherlock’s things while he watched on in stony silence, wasn’t getting them anywhere. Maybe Ella ( _and Mycroft, damn him_ ) were right. He was ready to try almost anything at this point; none of his own ideas were working.

 

Forced to admit the meeting had been somewhat successful, John went ahead and scheduled appointments for the next several weeks. On the cab ride home, to prevent himself from uselessly dwelling any further on his own melancholy, he found a scrap of paper and began making the list Ella had mentioned.

 

 _1\. Find a job_.

_2\. Stop drinking so much._

_3\. Take flowers to Mary. Bring Gladstone._

He reflected on these. The last felt a little silly, but he genuinely missed the trips with Gladstone, and he knew restarting them would alleviate some of his guilt. He had been relying on Mrs. Hudson to take the dog for a walk every day, the poor animal grumpy from all of the stress upsetting his home. Gladstone had been a comfort to John in the past, and it would give him a chance to get out of the house for a short while, as well as an excuse to walk out on some of the more pointless fights with Sherlock. It would also take some of the weight off of his shoulders, keeping up his promise to Mary again, maybe even help him start to cope with her loss.

 

As for the drinking, he wouldn’t give up his evenings with Greg entirely; even though they rarely talked about anything of importance, John knew those nights were vital to maintaining both of their brittle spirits. But he could maybe do with a few less shots; they could have a game of darts, go somewhere to catch a game on the telly, make fun of Anderson, all of it just as easily without downing an entire bottle of booze every time. He wouldn’t ask Greg to stop, it wasn’t his place, but maybe he would switch to pints instead. It would certainly be better for his liver.

 

The first scared him the most, and was arguably the most essential; he had been looking for weeks now, had even found plenty of viable job openings in his latest searches, but none that would allow him the flexibility to abandon his post and hunt Sherlock down at a moment’s notice. Letting go of that stipulation would mean surrendering to Ella’s admonition, that he back off a bit and focus more fully on himself. The prospect was both liberating and terrifying. He chewed on the end of his pen, contemplating his options. He slowly removed the pen from between his teeth and scrawled one last item on the list, sighing in relief and resignation.

 

_4\. Let Sherlock be_

 

-*-

 

John stuck by his resolutions fairly well, and his life steadily improved because of it. Mike had helped him get a small, somewhat boring position at Bart’s in the minor injuries unit, and John was pleased to discover that the distraction did wonders for his mood; the work wasn’t particularly daunting, but the careful attention required for stitching up gashes and setting bones left little room for any brooding during a majority of the day. Greg took his cues from John and ordered less alcohol on each visit to the pub, and they had even started forming casual friendships with some of the other regulars: less drinking had meant less getting thrown out and their business had been welcomed happily at this fourth location for the past few weekends now. He and Harry were getting on better as well; they actually had a real, almost-friendly relationship forming for the first time in years. All of this and the daily exercise with Gladstone, who had stopped chewing all of the shoes in the flat to bits, helped to clear John’s head. He no longer felt like the problems facing him were insurmountable.

 

Once a week he met with Ella, the conversation becoming increasingly less guarded when he had to admit that she was actually helping. She let him talk to his heart’s content about all of the things that were bothering him, occasionally offering advice, coping mechanisms, when she saw fit. She’d given a lot of suggestions on how to deal with Sherlock ( _“Before losing your temper, try to think of an easier solution to the situation.” “But he keeps drinking all of th-“ “For heaven’s sake, John, just buy more milk, it’s the least of your worries, isn’t it?”_ ). Afterward he would contemplate all of this at Mary’s headstone; he didn’t go every day, Ella and Harry both insisted that wasn’t good for him and John, reluctantly, agreed with them. Still, it was becoming less painful and more comforting to sit in the soft grass in front of Mary’s cold, chiseled name and try to calm himself down, to think of ways to break Sherlock’s addiction, to mend their fraying relationship, all the while imagining her curled up next to him, her arm around his waist and lovely, blonde head resting on his shoulder. He wouldn’t say he was happy – things with Sherlock remained too damaged for that – but for the first time in the seven months since her passing, he felt like his life was _livable_. For now, that was enough.

 

Sherlock, for his part, appeared baffled by the change in atmosphere at Baker Street. Upon returning from his first appointment with Ella, John had been welcomed at the door by a pale, sickly, and thoroughly hostile flatmate, ready to throw a hollowed-out encyclopaedia empty of its original contents right at John’s head. John ducked the projectile and started to lash out in response before Ella’s words and his own list flashed in his mind; instead, he calmly reached down to collect the morning paper, scratched Gladstone behind the ears, and, feeling braver than he had in _months_ , slid past Sherlock into the sitting room and settled into Mary’s armchair. It made him feel closer to her, like she was there beside him, supporting him. He didn’t know why he’d been avoiding it for so long.

 

“Yell all you like, just don’t hit me too hard, I still have quite a headache from Saturday.” He stared uncomprehendingly at the newsprint in front of him, heart pounding in his throat but voice, miraculously, steady. “Yes, I threw out your drugs. I’ll toss any I see. But I’m done having this fight with you. Whenever you’re ready to accept my help, just know that I’m here.”

 

Sherlock’s reply had been stunned silence, and then the now-familiar sound of his bedroom door slamming.

 

John’s lack of response to his needling threw Sherlock off-kilter as the first few weeks progressed. He purposely drank all of the milk, broke the teakettle, played his violin loudly, maniacally, at three in the morning, high as a kite. John refused to rise to the bait. He bought new milk, only allowing himself a fit of cursing when he was by himself in the shop, uncaring what any of the strangers there thought of him. He fixed the kettle or, alternately, when it was impossible, replaced it, angrily slapping his card down for the cashier instead of slapping Sherlock in the face. And when he trudged down the stairs at 3:15 AM to find Sherlock holding his violin in a defiant stance, head high, his growing curls in wild disarray and sleeves rolled up to reveal new pinpricks, obviously itching for a fight, John didn’t shout or break his violin bow over his knee no matter how much he wanted to. Instead he utilized the breathing exercises Ella had taught him during their last appointment, suppressed his temper, and evenly addressed his friend.

 

“Please tell me that you’re at least being safe.”

 

Sherlock nearly dropped his violin in shock, a rare, quizzical look overtaking his slack-jawed face before he shook it off. His bow hand dropped, forgotten, to his side and he tilted his head in a slight nod. John cleared his throat and offered a quiet, “Well, at least there’s that,” and strode back up to his room, hot tears soaking his pillow as he drifted off to sleep, the flat quiet once more.

 

They had been almost civil since that night. Sherlock quit intentionally destroying their home just to get a rise out of John, and John allowed more and more of Sherlock’s minor irritating behaviors to pass unmentioned. He respectfully inquired after Sherlock’s experiments; Sherlock, after briefly offering that same, confused look from before, explained as best he could (although, John’s heart broke a little, without any of his former pompous enthusiasm). John had been hopeful when, for one whole week, Sherlock had been a mass of frayed nerves and nausea, annoying and infuriating but obviously, _beautifully_ clean, but the illusion shattered when he returned to the flat from Bart’s one night, far later than he was meant to be, a ball of bouncing energy with dilated pupils darting about in their sockets. There was a flash of guilt when he met John’s eyes, but it passed before he could comment on it, Sherlock carefully composing his face into its usual expression of neutrality. John just sighed and walked past him toward the door, pausing to squeeze him lightly on the shoulder on his way out.

 

“Just…please, _please_ be safe.”

 

He hadn’t waited for a reply, walked straight out of the door and into the night, heading off to meet Greg. He resisted the childish impulse to pull his list from his pocket and boldly strike through resolution number two.

 

Six weeks passed since John’s first appointment with Ella and he and Sherlock were at a crossroads. They weren’t fighting as much anymore, but they still weren’t what you could call _friends_ either, and John didn’t know where to go from here, neither of them willing to make the first move. John wasn’t sure what that move was, nor was he sure what either of them were waiting for; he just knew they couldn’t remain like this forever, polite acquaintances dancing on tenterhooks around each other in their shared home, haunted by a past they couldn’t hope to ignore forever. In spite of all his progress John was worried and angry and upset, and he figured that Sherlock felt much the same. They needed a catalyst, some event to force them to confront one another again, to finally address the heart of the tension between them. John lay in his bed contemplating this, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes when a loud, resounding boom echoed from the kitchen, shaking plaster from the ceiling in its intensity.

 

He was out of bed like a shot, heart racing as he pounded down the stairs, sliding to a halt at the sight waiting for him. Sherlock was sprawled on the floor at his feet, coughing in a haze of smoke and wiping red, chunky viscera out of his eyes. Glass, metal, and plastic were strewn over the table and floor, along with what appeared to be shredded entrails and sticky, oozing splatters of dark blood. The charred husk of the microwave sat in its usual place on the countertop, cord melted into the socket and black scorch marks covering the wall and ceiling around it. John remembered the pig intestines that had been sitting in the painstakingly labeled package in the refrigerator all week, the firecrackers he’d found in a top drawer of Sherlock’s desk when hunting for a pen. He took a deep breath, trying to quell his mounting fury.

 

Ella had told him not to explode about trivial things. Taking in the sight of their demolished kitchen, the horrified face of Mrs. Hudson who had just rushed in to join him, this didn’t seem so trivial.

 

He yanked Sherlock up by the neck of his dressing gown, spinning him around and harshly grasping the sides of his face so he could look into his eyes. There was only the tiniest sliver of grey around a deep pool of black.

 

“You complete fucking _idiot_. What the hell have you done?”

 

Sherlock jerked out of his grasp and shoved at the scarred tissue of his shoulder in retaliation, _hard_. “I was _trying_ to detect the effects of radiation on explosive substances contained withi-”

 

John righted himself and shoved back, losing his tenuous grasp on his raging temper, held too long in check. “I don’t give a damn about yourexperiment, Sherlock! Look what you’ve done to Mrs. Hudson’s – _our –_ home!”

 

Mrs. Hudson startled at the mention of her name but said nothing, gripping the doorframe tightly and watching the fight unfold with wide, nervous eyes.

 

“It’s not like I did it on purpose, John. And don’t get so self-righteous about our “home,” as you call it. If _you’d_ bothered to keep up proper maintenance, replaced the damned microwave at any point during the last three years-”

 

John pushed him so violently Sherlock fell back to the floor, hands landing painfully amongst shards of glass and metal. “I guess I was busy piecing my life back together after my absolute _cunt_ of a best friend pretended to kill himself. And then my wife had a goddamn aneurysm, and I was a _little_ too preoccupied with all of that to worry about the safety of my bloody kitchen appliances!” Sherlock cradled his injured hands to his chest and tried to keep his face impassive, but in the agitation caused by his high and the adrenaline from the blast, he couldn’t quite conceal his hurt and indignation. It was time to end this, John knew; he should close his eyes and count to ten, and then haul the twat to his feet and herd him into the bathroom where he could check on his wounds. This wasn’t worth throwing out the weeks of improved communication between them. But after avoiding the issues for so long John couldn’t stop himself. “Besides, how did I know that you were going to barge in here after three years dead and need it for one of your oh-so-vital ‘experiments.’”

 

Sherlock was defensive; he ignored John’s heavy, loaded accusations and focused instead on the insult, or maybe his mind was simply too far gone to follow the entire train of thought. “Don’t you _dare_ devalue my work – ”

 

John barked a disbelieving laugh. “Work? You call blowing up the intestines of a dead pig, ‘work.’ Please, Sherlock, _explain_ to me who, exactly, this ‘work’ of yours is benefitting again? Because it certainly isn’t me...”

 

Sherlock tried to pull himself up but John shoved him back to the ground viciously, unwilling to let him collect his bearings. He was actually spluttering now. “It’s not all about pragmatism, that would be terribly dull, John. It’s about discovery, I’m a _scientist_ , you see, so – ”

 

His arrogance, his refusal to acknowledge the legitimacy of John’s outrage, somehow infuriated John more than it ever had in the past. He went in for the kill.

 

“A scientist? Please; you’re a strung-out junkie who manages to destroy EVERYTHING he touches and I am damn well _sick_ of your excuses. I give up!”

 

There was no ignoring that. Mrs. Hudson gasped; Sherlock’s pale skin went grey, eyes wide and wounded. It reminded John too much of that first night back when he had wrenched away from his embrace, left him half-naked and vulnerable on the sofa. John shoved his regret aside and stormed from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and slamming his bedroom door roughly behind him.

 

He shouldn’t have said that, any of it; he leaned against the door, worried he might pass out from adrenaline and anger and, for the countless time in the past two months, overwhelming remorse. He tried to think of Ella’s suggestions, what he should be doing right now.

 

_If you’re too angry or upset to deal with him, then don’t. Take a moment, calm down, find a distraction and return to the problem later. You’re going to have bad days - don’t beat yourself up about them, just try to discuss it with him and work things out together. That’s what a relationship is, John, compromise - even an unusual one like yours._

He slowly pushed himself away from the door. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he got himself ready for work. On the way out of the flat, he forced himself to enter the front room, where Mrs. Hudson was sitting with Sherlock, whispering quietly to him while she grasped his limp hands fiercely in her own; she had already bandaged them. She looked up when John entered. Sherlock didn’t.

 

“I’m sorry I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have said those things.” Sherlock’s eyes remained fixed on he and Mrs. Hudson’s intertwined hands, Mrs. Hudson’s eyes stared unflinchingly at John, demanding that he continue. “We’ll talk about this more when I get back from work. Just…I’m sorry.”

 

Thinking of nothing more to say, no way to make this situation right, John barely heard Sherlock’s hushed, “I’m sorry, too” as he fled to Bart’s.

 

-*-

 

John had never been more grateful or more frustrated to have only a few, mostly healthy patients waiting for him at work that morning. Grateful, because he was sure he would have further damaged any serious injuries trying to heal them with his shaking hands. Frustrated, because it gave him plenty of time to reflect on the wretched, awful things he’d shouted at Sherlock before leaving Baker Street. He sat hunched over in his chair, head resting on his desk and arms hanging listlessly by his sides. He gave into the impulse once to bang his forehead against the surface before forcing himself to sit upright and deal with the mess he’d made. There were still four hours to go in his shift.

 

_Plenty of time to decide what you’re going to say._

He thought for a moment of opening a Word document, typing out his thoughts in a letter to make sure he was prepared, but it seemed too much like something a fourteen-year-old would do during a tiff with a girlfriend. His apology had to be real, from the heart and, above all, _mature_.

 

_Just tell him you’re sorry; you don’t think he’s useless. Offer to help him again. Try to get him to talk about it, actually listen to him. You can do this._

_Or you can just sit here and pout._

Not really wanting to wallow in this misery for the rest of the day, John headed down to the cafeteria to bide the time. He very nearly turned and walked right back out when he saw Molly perusing the food choices, but she had already caught his eye and waved tentatively. He already felt terrible; he figured he might as well quit putting off this conversation and went to join her on the queue.

 

She looked sad, and a little lost. “Hi, John. How…how are you?”

 

“I’ve been better, also worse. How are you?” He smiled at her, strived to make it genuine.

 

Her eyes were glistening when she tried, and failed, to smile in return. “Oh, you know.” She toed at a scuffmark on the linoleum, couldn’t meet his eyes. “Still haven’t been able to get in touch with Greg. He texted me back, about a week ago, said he needed more time to think. I…I had to cancel the church.”

 

John felt he should offer her some comfort but had no idea where to begin. “I’m sure he’ll come to his senses.”

 

She kept staring at the floor. “Are…are you still angry with me?”

 

He started to consider this and realized he didn’t really have to. “No. Not anymore. I’m not thrilled that you lied to me, but I know how he is. I get why you did it.”

 

She looked at him then, tilting her head to the side as she studied him in a move eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. “No offense, John, honestly, but I really doubt that.”

 

“Really? It wasn’t because you were so madly in love with him?” He winced; he had aimed for teasing, but it sounded more like he was mocking her. She graciously let it slide, even laughed a little in disbelief.

 

“No, John.” She coughed, hesitated. “It was because I could see that he’s so madly in love with _you_.” John raised his eyebrows, floored by Molly’s candor. “Here, let me buy you lunch and I’ll explain, okay? And if you’re still mad at him, or at me, afterward then…then there’s just nothing left for it.”

 

John wanted to retreat back to his office, considered lying and saying he had a patient. His curiosity got the better of him, however, and he reluctantly agreed. She paid for their meal and they made their way to a secluded table in the corner. They picked at their food uncomfortably for a couple of minutes; he wasn’t sure if she was waiting for him to ask her questions, or if she was simply gathering her thoughts. He was just about to break the silence when she began, eyes drifting out of focus as she stared at her plate.

 

“He came to me at the morgue, right after you’d met Moriarty at that awful journalist’s flat. He was…God, John, if you could have seen him. Tears in his eyes – real ones, too, I could tell because…because he was trying to hide them, not like those crocodile tears he turns on during the cases. He told me he was going to die, that he was afraid of what would happen to you if he didn’t, but that he was just as afraid of what would happen to you if he _did_. All of it, every fear he had in that moment was about you, John. And suddenly it all made sense, the way he’d been looking at you all through that kidnapping case, the long, forlorn glances when he thought you weren’t looking. He thought that hemight die, perhaps violently, and the only person he was concerned about was _you_.” Molly took a deep, shuddering breath, tears streaming down her own face as she shared the memory. John was consciously trying to keep his own emotions in check, not really fancying the idea of putting on a show for the other diners.

 

“He said he needed to disappear, drop off the grid and make things right and keep us all safe, and he needed my help to do it. He was _desperate,_ John; I’d never seen him beg for anything in all of the years I’d known him, but I think he would have fallen to his knees if he thought it would convince me. I…I couldn’t turn him away after that, so I helped him. He held it together pretty well until…” She risked a glance at John’s face. He nodded for her to continue. “After…after he jumped, we snuck him into the boot of my car and waited until nightfall; I drove him to a small inn in the country, where the owner owed him a favor. He thought I didn’t see but…” She bit her lip, but only paused a moment before rushing through the rest of it. “He was _crying_ , John, the whole way there, staring out the window to keep his face away from me, but I knowwhat I saw. When I left him he hugged me close, almost painful, and buried his face into my shoulder. He made me promise to keep an eye on you while he was away, to watch out for myself, said he didn’t know if he’d ever come back and he owed me everything. He thought he was going to die, and he was absolutely terrified, even if he wouldn’t say, but mostly terrified of what it would do to you. He made me promise over and over again that I’d look after you. He held on for ages and I could feel his tears soaking into my jumper and his shoulders trembling from how he was trying to keep from falling apart. He practically had to pry his own fingers from my arms when he let go, tried to get his face back to normal, but I could still _see_.” Molly swiped furiously at her own tears and tried to collect herself. “And I just…I knowif you could have seen him, too, if Greg…you would forgive him instantly. It wasn’t an easy choice for him to make.”

 

The rest of the cafeteria was forgotten: John clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the embarrassing noises he knew he was making as he failed to keep from crying. Molly scrambled over to his side of the booth and wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders and he clung onto her, all traces of awkwardness gone between them. He wasn’t sure why the story affected him so; he knew, on some level, that Sherlock had been deeply conflicted about his choice to leave John behind, had occasional glimpses of it in these past few weeks when Sherlock accidentally let his guard down. But even when Sherlock had apologized that first night, even when he was shaking apart at the seams through an endless cycle of withdrawal and addiction, he maintained an air of stoicism that, shamefully, John had fallen for, convinced that his friend had been somehow removed from the painful consequences of his plan.

 

To hear otherwise, that the normally composed, aloof Sherlock had been a begging, sobbing, fearful mess broke something within John, a wall he’d carefully constructed between them to protect himself. He couldn’t entirely excuse Sherlock’s conduct since he’d come back, but in many ways, that was just _Sherlock_ : he was terrible with interpersonal conflict on the best of days, even worse when battling brutal, violent memories, struggling with a cocaine habit and cautiously navigating a shattered relationship with a distant, equally broken best friend. John suddenly realized what they’d been waiting for all these weeks: for John to realize this, and forgive him. Forgive him so that they could _both_ start to move on. John thought he might, finally, be ready. They wouldn’t be perfect after that – there was still the cocaine, for one, and it would still be awhile before they trusted each other again – but they would at least be _okay_ , and that’s all he wanted right now. He pressed his face further into Molly’s neck and relaxed into her arm around him.

 

“Thank you.” She kissed him gently on the cheek. He finally sat up and dried his face on his sleeve. “I have to go, but seriously, thank you.” He was halfway out of his seat before he plopped back down and grabbed her hand. “I’ll talk to Greg, tell him to call you. No promises, though, alright? He’s my friend, and I’m going to let him do what he thinks is best. But I will talk to him.”

 

Her soft smile widened fractionally at that. “Thank you, John. And for what it’s worth…I’m sorry, for the part I played in all of this. I really, _really_ thought I was doing the right thing.”

 

He stood up, stretching and digging out his phone to call in sick for the rest of the afternoon; he was antsy, wanted to be home now, couldn’t be bothered even to run upstairs and inform the receptionist in person. He felt the sudden need to see Sherlock immediately and put this whole nightmare to bed once and for all. John gave Molly one last, warm smile.

 

“I, respectfully, disagree.” She flinched, made to look away, but John gently turned her face back toward his. “But it’s okay, Molly. I understand why you did it. All’s forgiven.” He meant it.

 

She hugged him tightly, minutely happier now than she had been fifteen minutes ago, and set off toward the morgue. John realized as he headed out the front doors and hailed a cab that neither one of them had actually eaten their lunch.

 

-*-

 

There was a plan, this time. He was going to walk in the front door, find Sherlock, and apologize for the things he’d said this morning, explain that he didn’t really mean them, that all of the tension of the last three months had finally gotten to him. He was going to ask Sherlock to tell him anything he was ready to share and nothing more, and John was going to forgive him and offer his help in any way possible. They weren’t going to laugh and hug and cry because they weren’t adolescent girls, but they would nod stoically and _try_ to get back to some semblance of their former routine before everything had gone to hell. Everything would be okay, because John would make it so, and eventually it would be better than okay.

 

He really should learn to stop planning out the future. The future never seemed to care one way or another what John thought should happen.

 

John forced his steps to remain measured and willed his hands to stop shaking as he opened the front door to the flat. There was no sign of Sherlock in the sitting room; literally, _no sign._ John was taken aback – all of Sherlock’s papers, scientific equipment, violin paraphernalia was neatly put away in its proper place. He checked the kitchen. The mess from the morning had been cleared away, the worst of the scorch marks scrubbed and plastic sheeting covering the severely damaged areas that would have to be professionally repaired. The precision of the organisation let him know that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t behind this: Sherlock “ _Cleaning is a dull and pointless activity designed for ordinary people to make sense of their mundane lives”_ Holmes had actually fixed up the flat on his own. John temporarily worried that Sherlock had run off again, but the sound of the shower from the back hall let him know that his flatmate was still at home and this cleaning spree wasn’t a passive aggressive way of saying goodby. John obviously wasn’t the only one ready to make amends.

 

Making his way around the carefully laid plastic in the kitchen, John approached the bathroom door and knocked quietly. His rational brain yelled at him that interrupting a mate in the middle of a shower was not the proper time for a meaningful chat, but there was nothing proper or rational about he and Sherlock’s relationship. He waited for the man to invite him in. There was no response.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Still nothing. In fact, as John pressed his ear to the door, he couldn’t hear any movement in the room at all. He cautiously opened it a crack, not wanting to spook him. He was unprepared for what was lying on the other side.

 

The counter was littered with small, old pill bottles, some covered in dust, filled not with medication but a fine, white powder. On the tank of the toilet rested a finely polished, leather case lined with sterile syringes, one of which was missing. It was lying on the floor, out of its wrapper and plunger depressed, next to an overturned, empty glass bottle and a rubber tourniquet. John’s eyes took in all of this in one quick sweep. His attention was currently transfixed by the man on the floor of the shower.

 

Sherlock lay under the torrent of water fully clothed, trousers and shirt soaked through and one sleeve rolled up past his elbow. Several buttons on the shirt were undone revealing a shallowly heaving chest, breaths coming far too quickly to be normal. The whites of his eyes were exposed as they rolled back under his lids, head twitching back and forth as he muttered incessantly under his breath. John somehow had the presence of mind to dig out his phone and dial the ambulance, unsure what information he gave them before he collapsed under the freezing cold water next to his friend.

 

Help on the way, John tried to assess the situation as a doctor. He pressed his fingers into Sherlock’s neck and allowed himself one very brief second of panic at the rapidly fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips. The touch roused Sherlock from his stupor; he clutched frantically at John’s sleeves and tried to speak even though his lungs were failing him.

 

“I didn’t…John…didn’t mean…was going to give it…needed one last…sorry.”

 

John pressed his hand over Sherlock’s mouth tightly. “Shut up, Sherlock, just shut up and breathe. You don’t have to explain right now. Breathe.” The flow of words ceased, so John let his hand wander over Sherlock’s brow. His skin was burning, fever-hot all over. What John would have given in that moment for a sedative, anything to bring down Sherlock’s heart rate and get his breathing and blood pressure under control before he crashed. He focused instead on reducing his temperature. He searched through the medicine cabinet until he located the paracetamol and forced two tablets down Sherlock’s throat. He dragged him more fully under the spray and turning the tap up to its full force, down to its coldest setting. He pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s wet curls.

 

“Just hold on. You don’t get to die on me now, you giant prat, _not now_.”

 

It felt like years before the paramedics finally came crashing into the bathroom, Mrs. Hudson hot on their heels demanding to know what was happening, Gladstone yapping in alarm behind her. John leapt out of the way of the emergency crew and pulled Mrs. Hudson to him with one sopping wet arm.

 

“It’s an overdose, he’ll be…Jesus, fuck, _please_ be fine.” She trembled next to him but firmly returned his embrace, helping him remain upright. The emergency crew hurried Sherlock out of the flat on a stretcher, closing the ambulance doors in John’s face and telling him to follow in a cab.

 

Mrs. Hudson sat next to him the whole ride to Bart’s, one of John’s hands clasped in both of her own. John prayed to whatever force governed the universe – God, fate, even the devil, if he’d listen – that this wasn’t happening to him for the third time.

 

-*-

 

John had forgotten how much he hated waiting rooms; it didn’t matter that this one was technically a different hospital, they were all the fucking same. Uncomfortable plastic chairs and shite coffee and quietly crying family members huddled with their loved ones for support, waiting for the inevitable terrible news.

 

Not that John was surrounded by loved ones. True, Mrs. Hudson was sitting with Molly just a few feet away, and would probably return in a moment to check on him. And Harry and Greg both said they were on the way. But right now that left John sitting, alone, next to Mycroft Holmes, the same Mycroft Holmes he’d proudly spat in the face of almost three months ago, swearing to keep his brother safe on his own. He selfishly wished his anxiety for Sherlock could override his shame, but it couldn’t. He doubted anything would. John started to say he was sorry, hoping it might make him feel even slightly better about himself. Mycroft, as always, took control of the conversation before John could even begin.

 

“Don’t apologize, John; it was a lot to ask in the first place, and you’ve done really well, better than I expected and far more than I was capable of from a distance. And your actions probably saved his life tonight, so just…” Mycroft swallowed thickly, the closest he would come to demonstrating how this was affecting him. “Don’t apologize.”

 

John pressed his lips in a thin line to keep from saying it anyway. The fact that Mycroft didn’t blame him made him feel, if at all possible, even worse. He turned to stare hatefully at the doors leading back to intensive care, restraining himself from charging down the hall and demanding news.

 

_What’s taking so long?_

He had no idea how long he sat glaring. Finally, Sherlock’s doctor appeared, pushing his way into the waiting room, and John jumped to his feet while Mycroft gracefully ( _bastard_ ) stood and reached out to accept the doctor’s handshake. He smiled tightly at both of them; John hoped that was a good sign.

 

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.” He didn’t bother shaking John’s hand, John didn’t care. _Get on with it._ “I have good news – he’s going to be absolutely fine, physically, I mean, of course.” Mycroft couldn’t hide his sigh of relief and John didn’t try to. The doctor, strangely, didn’t look pleased. “He’s heavily sedated and, in spite of our usual protocol, our many other patients on the waiting list and the… _questionable_ nature of his particular ‘illness,’ we’re moving him to a private room per your …” He looked Mycroft up and down, his resentment clear. “ _request.”_

 

Mycroft looked smug, but it quickly faded when the doctor continued, with an air of disdainful superiority. “I’m afraid it gets unpleasant from there. We’ve made a call to the Yard.” John looked alarmed, and the doctor had the gall to actually _smirk_ ; Mycroft’s meddling had clearly pushed the man’s buttons. “I know, normally we turn a blind eye in the case of simple overdose, more concerned with the patient’s welfare and all that. But the boys who responded said there was enough of the stuff in that bathroom to start a small but _very_ illegal pharmacy, so…”

 

Mycroft interrupted, soft voice belying the danger John could sense in his words. “It was a stressful moment, doctor, I’m sure your _boys_ can’t be sure what they saw. In fact, I had my own people conduct a thoroughinvestigation of the premises while we waited for you to finish, and they assure me that the flat, aside from the items passed on to you for the sake of proper treatment, was completely clean.” It took all of John’s willpower to keep from reacting to the lie; he ground his teeth together to the point of pain. “They’ve also… _interrogated_ the paramedics a second time and they all agree – they saw absolutely nothing. Must have been a simple miscommunication, yes?”

 

The doctor visibly shrank away from Mycroft’s intimidating stance. John didn’t blame him – even he was afraid of Mycroft in that moment. He quickly recovered, trying a new tactic.

 

“Yes, yes, of course. But there’s _still_ the matter that this man is supposed to be dead. Surely they’ll want to send an Inspector over to interrogate him, and it’s been positively a nightmare for our legal -”

 

“The Yard already knows of my brother’s return, we’re simply waiting for the proper paperwork to go through. Bureaucratic nonsense.” He loomed over the doctor now, polite smile not at all pleasant. “But they’ve put a rush on it now, given the circumstances. I’m sure everything will be in accordance with your stringent legal and moral standards by morning.”

 

The doctor’s eye twitched almost comically; John would have laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. He’d been in this same situation plenty of times before. “I suppose I should ring them back, then, if everything has already been discussed?”

 

Mycroft grinned victoriously, looking for all the world like a hungry shark. “The Yard has already been informed: there will be no investigation. Is there anything else about the patient’s physical health, _doctor_ , that being your job and all?”

 

The doctor was obviously flustered by having his authority undermined at every turn; he was also clearly too afraid of Mycroft’s powerful connections to do anything about it.

 

“No, that’s all. A nurse will show you to his room.” He turned and stalked out, letting the double doors slam shut behind him.

 

As soon as they were alone, Mycroft’s smile slid off his face. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder, voice low and comforting. “See, John? It’ll all work out.” His mobile trilled and he excused himself to, no doubt, continue cleaning up after his little brother.

 

As John followed a nurse to a large, private room secluded from the bustle of the rest of the hospital wing, he had never been more grateful for Mycroft Holmes and his ridiculous theatrics in his entire life.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock looked deceptively peaceful. Pale, drawn and unhealthy, but peaceful. John had been sitting by his bedside a few hours now, studying him intently – Sherlock was never this still, and he didn’t know when he’d get another chance like this.

 

They’d mostly been left alone all evening. Mycroft was off taking care of the messy legal business surrounding the hospital stay, although John suspected he was more accurately trying to find excuses to avoid seeing Sherlock for as long as possible. He was still too thankful for all of Mycroft’s helpful interfering to mock him for it. He had graciously stationed Beatrice at the door, who scared away most unwanted visitors with her icy, formidable visage – including an unfortunate drug abuse counselor just trying to do her job (John accepted her business card, just in case). Greg had come bursting through the door a couple of hours ago, frantic, demanding to know what was going on, but had swiftly been ushered out by Molly and Mrs. Hudson. He heard them promise Greg a full explanation if he would just follow them to the waiting area. He had looked once at John before allowing himself to be pulled from the room, hand held tightly in Molly’s, John noticed with a small amount of hope. Harry had even dropped by for a few minutes, brought him a coffee and said to let her know if needed anything else, before she, too, left him in peace. Everyone was rushing about, offering assistance and explanations where they could, except for John. He just sat and _stared._

 

He really looked at the man in front of him for the first time in weeks, and he felt like an enormous fool. Sherlock’s erratic, childish behaviour hadn’t been a simple display of carefree recklessness, a sign that he’d already moved on and was waiting for John to catch up. John read the truth in the sunken, dark circles surrounding paper thin eyelids, waxen skin stretched over sharp bones, body still far too thin in spite of the weight added by Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. Sherlock had been feeling just as trapped, just as _tortured_ as John, but John had been too bitter about his own pain to notice.

 

_You can’t fix him, John. Sherlock is a grown man, and that’s a choice that he’s going to have to make for himself._

John dropped his head to rest on the edge of the mattress next to Sherlock’s hand. On an intellectual level he knew Ella was right, that John hadneeded to face his own problems and figure out his feelings before he could do anything for Sherlock. He still feltlike he had failed him somehow, that he hadn’t been there for him like he should have. He righted himself and pressed further back into his uncomfortable chair, fists clenched against the armrests. All of this dwelling on past mistakes needed to stop, it’s what had gotten them here in the first place; he had to learn to let it go. He was here now, and he would continue to be for as long as Sherlock needed him.

 

John stopped himself short of brushing a few wayward curls back from Sherlock’s forehead, of interlacing their fingers and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. Sherlock wasn’t Mary, and John wasn’t the same person he’d been seven months ago. Instead, he continued to stare at the motionless figure in the bed and, as he’d done in the past, waited to follow Sherlock’s lead.

 

Sherlock awoke a few times over the next couple of hours, groggy and incoherent, before collapsing instantly back into unconsciousness. Finally, after five agonising hours, grey eyes fluttered open and remained so, focusing dazedly on John.

 

“John.” His voice was rough, trachea raw from the earlier efforts to draw harsh breaths into constricting lungs. John shushed him by placing a straw between his lips, forcing him to take several sips of water before he’d allow him to continue.

 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” He rested the cup on the side table as Sherlock fumbled with the remote on the bed, raising himself to a sitting position. “Enjoy your beauty rest?” John kept his tone intentionally light, gauging Sherlock’s reaction.

 

“ _John_.” Sherlock was somehow somber and exasperated all at once.

 

_No dancing around it this time, then. Very well._

 

“I’m sorry.” Seemed as good a place to start as any. Sherlock was visibly frustrated by the apology.

 

“This wasn’t your fault. If anyone is sorry it should be _me_.”

 

That sounded okay too. “Alright, then. Off you go.”

 

Even heavily sedated and in the beginning stages of severe withdrawal Sherlock managed to look superior. “Stop trying to be clever. It’s not a good look on you.”

 

“Stop stalling. If you want to go first, go first.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but consented. “ _Fine_. I apologize for my actions today, both this morning and this afternoon. I believed I had everything under control, but the incident with the microwave has caused me to reconsider…” He stopped. His mind wasn’t working at its usual top speed, and he was clearly having a hard time putting the right words together. John decided to help him along.

 

“What were you doing when you decided to kill yourself?”

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t – ” He cut himself off and reached for the water on the side table, throat irritated by the outburst. “I wasn’t _trying_ to kill myself. After this morning I wanted to demonstrate to you that I could cease using whenever I wanted; that the cocaine was simply a harmless way of maintaining my mental alacrity until Mycroft and I could sort out the legal mess caused by my homecoming and I could return to my work. I fully intended on handing everything over to you; it’s why I’d collected it all on the counter. But…”

 

“…but you were wrong.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Yes.”

 

“You don’t have it under control.”

 

Some hesitation. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

 

“Are you ready for my help, then?”

 

Another long pause. John held his breath. “Yes. I…” Sherlock dropped his head back to rest against the pillows, breathing through his nose deeply for a few long minutes. He rolled his head to the side to finally meet John’s eyes. “I’ve been ready for it for some time now, if I’m honest,” he said, softly. John grasped his hand in encouragement and was happily surprised when Sherlock squeezed it back. He was exhausted, far too tired to keep lying to himself, to John. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come to you for help. _Again_. I can’t seem to stop making the wrong decisions when it regards you. I thought you were still angry with me, but then it seemed that you wanted everything to go back to normal. I didn’t…” John saw his jaw clench. “You’re much harder to read than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

 

“I don’t try to be.” John almost whispered; for some reason, it seemed like talking any louder would shatter this moment between them. “It’s been very confusing for me, too. I’ve been trying to sort it out.”

 

“I haven’t made it easy on you.”

 

John chuckled quietly. “No, you certainly haven’t.”

 

Sherlock looked pained. “I never intended to be such a burden, quite the opposite, in fact. I thought that my return would make both of our lives easier. I…” He trailed off, determination overtaking his features. “I’ll be better.”

 

“No more experiments designed to drive me ‘round the bend, then?” John smirked wryly, trying to relieve some of Sherlock’s awkwardness. He’d never seen him look this lost.

 

“I wasn’t actively attempting to irritate you.” John raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and Sherlock looked away, chastened. “Well, maybe a bit. I thought it might help us return to our typical mode of communication.”

 

“Constant bickering?”

 

“Friendly banter.” Sherlock corrected. “Obviously I was mistaken about that too.” Sherlock paused, rubbed his thumb along John’s index finger. His voice was so low John had to lean in to hear it. “I really am sorry, you know. The words are hardly adequate; you know that I’m terrible at this. But I’m so sorry for everything. All of it.”

 

They were still holding hands. It should have been more awkward, after everything, but it was nice. Pleasant. “Me too.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in consternation. “That’s stupid. You’ve done nothing wrong-”

 

“Okay, two things, Sherlock. 1) Don’t call the man you’re trying to apologize to ‘stupid,’” Sherlock rolled his eyes but stayed quiet, letting John continue. “And 2) I’ve absolutely been in the wrong. What I said this morning was wrong.”

 

“It was accurate,” Sherlock’s mouth was set in a grim line.

 

“It was exaggeration,” John qualified. “Addiction is a disease; I’m a doctor, and I should have remembered that. That wasn’t the proper response, and I’m sorry. Do you accept my apology?”

 

He might not have called John stupid again, but his expression was certainly broadcasting it. “Of course, if you insist on offering it. But – ”

 

John was satisfied for now; things would be difficult from here on out, but he felt like they would manage if they could just get past this one hurdle. “And I accept yours. Good.”

 

Sherlock waited a beat for John to continue, his brow rose skeptically when he didn’t. “Really? That’s all? Two vague apologies and everything is suddenly ‘good’?”

 

“Well, maybe not everything,” John conceded. “But we’re getting there. I forgive you, you forgive me, and we are going to move forward from there with a strict honesty policy in place. Acceptable?”

 

“That is asininely simple, John. It will take me years to repay – ”

 

John startled Sherlock by placing a finger over his lips. “It is incredibly simple, but it’s how things are. If you want to repay me, you can start by trusting me in this. Do you trust me?”

 

Sherlock nodded without hesitation. It warmed John’s heart. “Then we’ll be fine,Sherlock. I’m sure we’ll still be at each other’s throats here for awhile, and I still expect a better explanation of past events from you in the near future.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand to quell the panic he saw rising in his eyes; best leave that for later, then. “But eventually you’ll go back to being your normal level of brat, and I’ll go back to being a crabby but harmless old coot, and everything will be _fine._ ” A part of John really believed it, and he hoped the rest of him would follow. He gave into the urge to push Sherlock’s fringe out of his face. The reaction wasn’t quite what he expected: Sherlock fidgeted, twisting petulantly away from the touch.

 

“Really, John, I’m not the damsel in a bloody soap opera. Please have some respect for my masculinity.”

 

John laughed at that, a full-bodied, genuine laugh that grew even brighter when, for the first time in over three years, Sherlock’s deep baritone joined in, their hands still clasped tightly together.

 

They were going to be _okay_.


	8. Revelation in the light of day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six weeks passed, and their big conversations were still waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this would be done three weeks ago? I'm a liar. Sorry about that. Hope it was worth the wait; please let me know if you see any mistakes! ETA - Edited because my italics didn't show up the first time.

Sherlock slept fitfully in the hospital bed; not even Mycroft’s influence could convince the doctors to release an overdose patient without at the very least overnight observation. He was, however, to be released early the next morning – against all sound medical advice, as the doctor liked to keep reminding them. The news clearly did not sit well with his physician but Sherlock could hardly hide his giddy relief, which naturally only served to irritate the doctor even further. John tried hard, and of course failed, not to smile at Sherlock’s condescending tone when explaining to the man that he was _fine,_ really, and he already had a perfectly competent doctor to look after him at home, and _where did you obtain your degree, again_?

 

It was late when the irate doctor had finally had enough and went storming from the room, Sherlock and John’s thoroughly inappropriate laughter following him out the door. Mrs. Hudson, a tear-stained Molly, and, to John’s infinite surprise, _Harry_ had been waiting in the hall for several minutes, popping in to offer a few words of encouragement before saying goodnight. Sherlock accepted their well wishes in stride, but even he looked puzzled when Harry squeezed his hand and uttered a quiet, “Get well soon.” John just shrugged; he’d learned a long time ago not to try and explain his sister’s behavior. John and Harry _had_ been closer recently, so he figured it was simply her way of being there for him, making up for all of those years lost between them due to her drinking. As they said their goodbyes, Harry and Molly promising to check in on them both the next day, John noticed that Molly looked, if possible, even more miserable now than she had before her conversation with Greg. He started to ask her about it but Harrysent him a fierce look and, once again puzzled at her involvement, he let it drop. Shortly after they left he received a terse text from Greg:

 

 _Went home. May drop by the flat tomorrow. Don’t ask_.

 

John tamped down his curiosity – it was really none of his business – and typed out a quick reply in acknowledgment. He was guessing that whatever had passed between Molly and Greg today, it hadn’t gone well.

 

Ignoring a slew of protests from the doctors and nurses, and a weak effort by Sherlock himself ( _You know I’ve slept in much worse places than this, John, I’ll be fine…_ ), John stayed with Sherlock through the night. One of the nurses took pity on him around two in the morning and brought in an extra mattress for him to sleep on, but he still spent most of the night awake in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Sherlock’s bed, watching the man toss and turn in discomfort. They were slowly weaning him off of the sedatives before he went home and John knew, from watching him these last three months, that soon he would be in a large amount of pain. Their moment of levity had passed; as John pulled Sherlock’s hand away from scratching feverishly at his skin in his sleep, John knew the next several weeks were going to be a major challenge to the fragile balance of their reestablished friendship.

 

-*-

 

Any tranquility the they had found the previous day shattered the next morning: someone had tipped off the press about Sherlock’s return from the dead, and rumors were already flying surrounding his survival and the reason for his current hospital stay. A mob of reporters crowded the hospital entrance, forcing the police to erect a makeshift barricade to allow patients to safely pass through and making it nigh impossible to get Sherlock home unseen. Sherlock insisted that he didn’t care, but John could easily see past his bravado: his hands were shaking, knuckles white in a vice-like grip on the sheets in an attempt to hide the tremors, his brow beading with sweat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow down his nausea. There was no way Sherlock was ready for a face-off with one hundred rabid journalists, no matter the nonchalance he attempted to project to the rest of the medical staff.

 

John suspected that Sherlock’s doctor may have been involved in the leak, and from the way even Mycroft didn’t attempt to hide his utter disdain for the man while taking care of the release papers, he assumed that he was right. He spent much of the morning silently fuming while Mycroft played damage control, trying to decide if the prison time would be worth it to bash the man’s head in. Perhaps he could just clock him a good one on the jaw. Fortunately, before John enacted any of these rash fantasies, Mycroft was able to commandeer a unit of security personnel (John didn’t ask) to help Sherlock sneak out of the back door. All parties heaved a sigh of relief when they managed to pass unnoticed into the safety of the black town car.

 

Unfortunately, their quiet escape from the hospital only caused the press to migrate en masse to Baker Street, blocking the roadway and circling the front door to 221 like a pack of hungry wolves. John briefly panicked: Sherlock had deteriorated even further on the ride over and was absolutely in no shape to shove his way through a crowd of bloodthirsty reporters. Without an audience to witness his performance, he had stopped trying to hide his weakness: he was huddled next to John, flinching at the noise outside the car and trying desperately not to heave his meager breakfast all over the backseat. John resolutely blocked out the din as the press converged on them, rapping insistently on the windows and endlessly snapping photographs in the hopes they might catch a glimpse of John and Sherlock as soon as the doors opened. John offered up a silent prayer of thanks that the glass was at least tinted and tried to surreptitiously squeeze Sherlock’s hand in reassurance, wincing when he caught Mycroft’s piercing, knowing gaze focused on them. But when Sherlock refused to let go, clinging to John’s hand like a lifeline, he decided he didn’t give a damn what Mycroft thought he knew, threading his fingers more firmly through Sherlock’s own and trying to determine the best way to get to the front door, apart from fatally injuring any of the paparazzi in his path.

 

It turned out John didn’t have to do anything at all. Suddenly the crowd parted, dozens of irate reporters shouting their protests as two lines of the Yard’s finest shoved them none too gently aside, creating a pathway between the passenger door and the entryway. John felt a swell of gratitude as Lestrade came marching out of the flat, shouting a few choice words at the more eager journalists trying to push their way past the barrier. John turned back to Sherlock and couldn’t help but grin; Sherlock smirked in return, relief flooding his features. Their moment was interrupted by Lestrade as he wrenched open the back door.

 

“What are you waiting for, a bloody invitation? Get inside, all of you!”

 

Mycroft squeezed past Sherlock and John and unfolded gracefully from the backseat, opening his umbrella and turning to Sherlock with his eyebrow raised. Sherlock relinquished his death grip on John’s hand and climbed out to stand next to his brother, face obscured by his turned-up coat collar and the black umbrella. As John scrambled out after them, the roar of the crowd, which had increased exponentially when they had appeared, momentarily disoriented him. He ducked his head and followed them as quickly as possible, cursing his short legs for the millionth time in his life as he stumbled to catch up to their graceful, long strides.

 

Once inside, Greg practically slammed the door behind them, tense lines around his mouth and eyes and a glare firmly in place.

 

“Does somebody want to explain what the _hell_ is going on out there? How did this happen?”

 

Both Mycroft and John opened their mouths to explain; they were cut off by Sherlock’s surprisingly steady voice.

 

“I’m more than happy to give you the details, Lestrade, if you would accompany me upstairs.” Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of her flat to fuss over John and Sherlock. “Perhaps you and Mycroft could wait down here a bit, John? If that’s alright with you, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Mrs. Hudson waved away the request good-naturedly. “Of course, of course, whatever you need, dear.” John tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes, but he was staring intently at Lestrade, who, for his part, looked completely bewildered. John was confused as well: he thought they were trying to be honest now – why on earth would Sherlock need to speak to Greg without him? What was he hiding? He opened his mouth to say as much when Mrs. Hudson cut him off. “Come along, boys, I’ll make us all a nice cuppa and we’ll try to tune out those horrible vultures outside.” She cast a disapproving look at the door and started herding Mycroft and John toward her flat. John wasn’t willing to go without an explanation.

 

“Now just hang on a min –”

 

“John.” Mycroft’s tone was firm. He had remained silent thus far, staring at his brother with a calculating expression. “I think it’s best if we give the two detectives a minute or two alone, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock turned away from Lestrade and fixed John with a pleading look.

 

“I’ll fill you in later. Just a few minutes, please.”

 

It was hard to let it go, to just believe that Sherlock would eventually share everything with him as he’d always done in the past. John realized in that moment how difficult it was going to be, rebuilding any sense of trust between them, if something as small as this filled him with such doubt. He could keep pressing the point, insist on joining the two men upstairs, but then nothing would ever change, he would always distrust anything Sherlock did without him present. Swallowing around all of his insecurities, he decided to take this one small leap of faith.

 

“Alright. I’ll…I’ll see you in a bit. Yell if you need anything.”

 

Sherlock nodded, his face relaxing.

 

“Of course.”

 

With that, Sherlock shakily led Greg up the stairs to 221B. There was nothing for John to do now but wait.

 

-*-

 

A few minutes ended up being nearly an hour. John fidgeted restlessly in his seat while Mycroft stared straight ahead in stony silence, Mrs. Hudson prattling along nervously in the background about the weather, the latest tabloid news from the telly, anything but Sherlock Holmes or the ridiculous media circus outside their own front door. Eventually even she became antsy, anxiously checking the clock every few minutes and lapsing into fretful silences.

 

“I do wonder what’s keeping them. I hope they’re not fighting over that dreadful business with Molly.”

 

John’s focus snapped to full attention at that. “What dreadful business with Molly?”

 

“Oh…I really shouldn’t gossip.” She looked about furtively, as if Molly or Lestrade were suddenly going to leap around the corner, furious and offended. “It’s just, well, she finally explained everything to him about…” She paused here, looking uncertainly at Mycroft before continuing in a whisper. “About _why_ she helped Sherlock. But…you know all about that, right?”

 

_It was because I could see that he’s so madly in love with you._

 

Mycroft chose this moment to tune back into the conversation; John could feel his eyes boring into him from across the kitchenette. He tried to keep his breathing steady and stared firmly at Mrs. Hudson, refusing to make eye contact. He nodded, and Mrs. Hudson reached out to pat him gently on the back of the hand.

 

“Yes, well, of course. At any rate, she was explaining everything to Greg, and Harry and I were listening in as well – and Harry was absolutely touched, you should know, about how much Molly was willing to do to keep you safe, thanked her up and down for protecting you at all costs – and it all seemed to be going rather well. The poor dear has been distraught these past few months without him – she joins me for tea, you know, when Sherlock is busy with all of his revolting experiments upstairs.” John nodded, impatient for her to continue, even though he hadn’t been aware of their friendship until this very moment. It turned out Sherlock wasn’t the only one who missed important developments in his friends’ lives. “I hoped that they were finally working everything out. But when she was finished, Greg got this sad look, and he was quiet for a long, long time.”

 

Mrs. Hudson started to tear up a bit. “He thanked her for telling him the truth, even said that he completely understood why she did it, but that he didn’t think he could trust her again after keeping all of this from him for so long.” John’s heart sank into his stomach. “He said it hurt too much that she had trusted Sherlock more than him, it felt like everything they had shared was some kind of lie. Personally, I think it reminded him too much of his cheating wife, but can you really blame him?” She shook her head and tsked in sympathy. “He finally called the wedding thing off – said he forgave her but just couldn’t _forget_ , at least not yet. I feel awful for the poor things – they’re both completely miserable. I think Harry helped Molly a bit yesterday, talking to her all evening after Greg walked out, to take her mind off of it, but he just looked so lost when he left…” She trailed off, looking up at the ceiling as if she could see the man in question.

 

John had no idea what to say; his throat burned and his eyes stung with what felt, inexplicably, like loss. He had assumed that Molly and Greg would work past all of this, that it was the same for them as it was for him, when he had known since he first found Sherlock standing in the bathroom upstairs three months ago that he would eventually forgive the bastard in spite of everything and life would move on. To discover that Molly and Greg wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – come back from this broke something inside of him. They had found each other, lost souls, the same way he had found Mary, when they all had most needed somebody to cling to; a bitter, empty part of him supposed that it was fitting, that all of the remnants of those three years, that lifetime without Sherlock, should die and fade away with his return.

 

After a few moments of oppressive silence, Mycroft stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit.

 

“I’ll go see what’s keeping them, shall I?”

 

John felt as though he should protest, figuring that it would take far longer than an hour for Greg and Sherlock to hash out all of their differences. _If that’s even possible, now_. But it had taken all of his willpower to let them go upstairs without him in the first place, and his impatient curiosity was winning out over any sense of propriety. Mycroft took their silence as assent and slipped from the room, quietly closing the door behind him. After ten more minutes or so, loud footsteps blundered down the stairwell, stopping abruptly outside of Mrs. Hudson’s flat before a surprisingly soft knock sounded through the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it and Greg stepped inside, choosing to stand, jittery, just in the entryway and kindly refusing all of Mrs. Hudson’s offers to come in and take a seat.

 

“No, thank you, but I best be off, try to get a handle on this PR nightmare.” He gestured out toward the street, smiling tightly. He turned to John. “Sherlock said you can come up now, if you want. I think Mycroft wanted to speak to him alone, but…” Greg shrugged. “Well, you know how those two are.”

 

John nodded. He felt as if he should ask how everything went, what Sherlock had said, offer a few words of comfort about Molly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Greg cut him off.

 

“I’m sure he’ll fill you in. I’d honestly rather not talk about it.” John clamped his lips together and said nothing. Greg breathed deeply and scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired as he left.

 

The crowd seemed a bit quieter, now. John hoped that most of them had gone home for the night, but he knew that it would still take the press awhile before they lost interest and moved on to someone else. He wondered how long he and Sherlock would be trapped at the flat, how long it would take Sherlock to snap under the strain. A gentle hand on his shoulder broke him out of his reverie.

 

“Why don’t you head on upstairs and see how he’s doing? And feel free to pop back down anytime you boys need anything.” Mrs. Hudson’s kind smile quelled some of the anxious nausea in his gut. He thanked her before practically bolting out of the door toward the flat. It took all of his willpower not to take the steps two at a time and he thought he made a decently presentable picture of calm when he entered the sitting room.

 

Sherlock was sitting curled in on himself in his favorite armchair while Mycroft stood in front of him, speaking quietly. Sherlock stared off into space, nodding slightly every so often in response. In a testament to how distracted both of the usually-observant men were, it took quite a few seconds for them to register John’s presence in the room, and then only because Gladstone had started snuffling loudly and happily around his ankles while John scratched his ears. Sherlock immediately turned his full attention toward John and Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh.

 

“I suppose that is the end of any small amount of interest I could have hoped for from you. I do hope at least some of my words sank in.” Mycroft stared at John the whole time he was speaking, but his words were clearly aimed at Sherlock. Uncomfortable under nearly twin sets of penetrating gazes, John shrugged uncomfortably.

 

“Sorry to interr – ”

 

“Don’t be.” He strode past him out of the flat, adding as he closed the door. “Please try to keep a low profile while the grown-ups sort out this mess, if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

John and Sherlock were completely alone together for the first time in over twenty-four hours. Sherlock kept his eyes focused on John, clearly waiting for him to make the first move, to ask him about Greg and Mycroft, to say more meaningful, sappy things about their future, to comment on the chaos in the street below. Instead, John settled into the chair opposite his friend, picking up a newspaper from the floor beside his seat.

 

“Why is it that I always feel an impulsive urge to do the exact opposite of whatever your brother tells me to do?”

 

Sherlock laughed. “I’ve clearly been a bad influence on you.”

 

When John looked back up, he was smiling. It looked pained, but it was better than the nervous misery that had graced his features in the car. John decided their big conversations could wait; he wanted this peace to last as long as possible. He grinned back at him.

 

“Clearly.”

 

-*-

 

Six weeks passed, and those big conversations were still waiting. Sure, Sherlock had filled John in on his conversation with Greg ( _I’m resigned to the fact that he may never again consider me a friend, if he ever did in the first place, but I begged him to reconsider his stance on his relationship with Molly, I owe her at least that much. I’m not sure how successful I was_ ) and Mycroft ( _He apologized, John, an action so rare and shocking I had little choice but to forgive him_ ). But John still didn’t know anything more about Sherlock’s absence than he had since Sherlock’s first day back. He had been hesitant to press him for more information while the symptoms of his withdrawal were still so overpowering, focusing instead on holding onto the threads of his well-worn patience while dealing with his petulant flatmate. For his part, Sherlock had tried to behave himself, shouting his abuse at inanimate objects instead of at John and taking out his frustration on his own furniture instead of Mrs. Hudson’s house. Some days were worse than others, but their fights were much fewer than they had been before and never nearly as dramatic.

 

Until tonight, that is.

 

Sherlock was doing much better, actually putting weight on again and managing an entire five hours of sleep a night, far more even than he’d even gotten all those years ago when he was healthy and drug-free. Although the first few weeks had been the worst, confined to the flat by the constant crowd of reporters lurking outside the front door, things had finally started to calm down on Baker Street. A short press release had been published – John wasn’t sure if New Scotland Yard or Mycroft was responsible – briefly explaining that yes, Sherlock was alive and well, and no, he wouldn’t be giving any interviews. After about three or so weeks, the press had backed off, moving onto more interesting and willing subjects after being bullied into submission by Mycroft’s and Lestrade’s efforts. Both John and Sherlock breathed a sigh relief at being able to leave the flat when they wished, and Sherlock had taken to occasionally joining John on his walks with Gladstone to give himself something to do, deducing everything he could about the passersby and forcing John to bite back his unmanly giggles. He avoided going to visit Mary on those days, though, and Sherlock never mentioned it – until they’d talked through all of their issues, John didn’t think he was ready to share those moments at Mary’s headstone, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be.

 

Now that Sherlock was reasonably healthy – his nausea mostly gone and his agitation subsiding, although he was by no means out of the woods – and the press was off their backs, John started to grow restless. They got on rather well, but they never talked about anything serious anymore, still hadn’t dealt with those three empty years standing between them. Tonight, John thought that they might be ready to finally bring it up again. It had been a good day: Sherlock had acted almost like his old self again, with the positive exception that he had been more than happy to relax about the flat, tinkering with a few minor experiments in the kitchen and plucking absently at his violin while John read a book. John knew it had been stressful for him to have nothing to do all these months: until he was recovered and the firestorm in the media blew over, they weren’t taking on any private cases, and neither of them had heard from Lestrade since that day after the hospital, so there were no new cases from the Yard either. John thought that Sherlock was doing pretty well, considering the crushing boredom that he was no doubt experiencing, and figured that, at worst, Sherlock would tell him to piss off if he asked about Moran, Irene, or any of the rest of Moriarty’s network. One shouting match later – _Oh, Christ, not this again – You promised, Sherlock!_ – found Sherlock slamming the door to his bedroom and John storming out of the flat, for the first time in months, to meet Greg at the pub and drown his sorrows.

 

John was already three pints in when Greg showed up, scowling murderously and plopping heavily down onto the stool next to him. John felt guilty at the sight of him: he had been so caught up in keeping the peace at Baker Street that he hadn’t bothered to contact his friend in weeks, and Greg had clearly been miserable in that time, dark circles under his eyes, face drawn and clothes hanging off of a thin frame. He wondered if he had talked to Molly anymore since that day at the hospital, though John figured Molly would have brought it up if he had. He still held onto a glimmer of hope that Greg would change his mind about them – he clearly missed her. He decided then that all of his problems with Sherlock could wait for a bit: for once he would try to be there for Greg.

 

“Everything al-”

 

“Tell your sister to stop bloody texting me.” Greg downed the contents of his drink in one go and gestured to the bartender for another.

 

“Erm, sorry?”

 

“Tell your sister to mind her own fucking business.” John was completely flabbergasted – _he_ had barely talked to Harry in the last six weeks, just when she met him and Molly for lunch at Bart’s a couple of days, and Greg had heard enough from her to be bothered by it?

 

“I don’t understand.” A thought struck him; he remembered how close she and Molly had seemed a few days ago in the cafeteria, how they had been whispering conspiratorially when he arrived at the table and ceased the minute he sat down. _Goddamnit, Harry_. “Is it about Mol-”

 

Greg turned that vicious glare fully onto John. “Don’t – don’t bring up Molly, don’t bring up Sherlock, just…” He downed his second drink. “Don’t.”

 

“Alright, alright. Sorry.”

 

They fell into an awkward, moody silence. After a few failed attempts to start conversations about football, cricket –John even tried to talk about the bloody weather – he decided he’d had enough. There were plenty of uncomfortable silences to be had at home, and John figured, at the very least, he had earned that discomfort. He slapped some cash down on the bar – enough to cover both tabs – and made an excuse to get the hell out of there. Tipsy, he clumsily fished his mobile out of his pocket and angrily stabbed in Harry’s speed dial.

 

Tinkling laughter and clinking silverware echoed faintly in the background. “Sorry, one moment, I have to take this – Well hello, brother mine. I’m on a date, only have a few minutes, but what can I do for you this fine even – ”

 

“What the bloody fuck did you say to Greg to make him so perfectly unpleasant?”

 

Silence. “Sounds like somebody had a bit of a fight with their flatmate again, didn’t they.” John thought he heard a woman laugh at that. It sounded remarkably like Beatrice, Mycroft’s aloof assistant.

 

That really set John off. “Don’t you dare change the subject, Harry. You can’t just waltz back into my life after years of not giving a shit and start meddling in everybody’s affairs.”

 

Harry’s voice had gone hard, resolved. All traces of humor were gone. “Sorry I care about my friends – I would hardly call a few text messages ‘meddling.’ I know I’ve been an absolute shite older sister, so consider this making up for lost time. And I’ll tell you exactly the same thing I told Greg: Get over it.”

 

Now John was angry _and_ confused. And a little drunk. All in all, not the best combination, but he was more than happy to take it out on his sister. “What the fuck are you on about? Are you drunk? Fallen off the wagon again already?”

 

Harry, to her credit, ignored the barb, a clear sign that she was _not_ intoxicated. “You heard me: get over it. I understand that Molly and Sherlock lied to you two, and that was wrong and deceitful and it hurt your wee baby feelings, but it’s not like they did it to screw you over, _they did it to save your lives_. Both of you. The situation was a clusterfuck and they did the best they could with what they had, and it’s time that the two of you stopped punishing them for it. It’s making all of you miserable. Even me, which is exceedingly annoying, as it’s supposedly, as you so graciously pointed out, not my ‘affair’.”

 

John felt his anger slipping away, guilt slowly taking its place. Harry was oversimplifying things, he knew she was, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t some truth to her words. He tried to remain defiant. “Why do you even care about any of this? What does it matter to you if we all get along?”

 

Harry sighed. “Because those two were willing to risk everything they had to keep my only family in the world safe, something I had fucked up my entire fucking life, and I don’t like seeing them suffer for it.”

 

John had no idea how to respond to that. He didn’t realize he’d stopped in the middle of the pavement, gaping disbelievingly into the darkness, until a drunken tourist jostled into him harshly. “Harry, I…”

 

She laughed; it sounded a little watery. “Yeah, yeah, I love you. Get over that too. Now go home and sleep it off, brat. I’ll see you at lunch in a few days.” She ended the call before John could say goodbye.

 

He spent the short walk back to 221B contemplating what she’d said. While he knew that he and Sherlock still needed to talk about what had happened – in a healthy, shout-free manner, preferably – he thought that Harry might have a point as well. Every time John brought up Sherlock’s three-year manhunt, there was a note of accusation in his voice. He supposed that a small, vindictive part of himself, given everything he suffered in the last three years, wanted to know exactly how much Sherlock had gone through for him. The realization pained him – Sherlock was his friend, more than that, if John was honest with himself, and hadn’t he demonstrated in the past few months _exactly_ how trying this ordeal had been for him? And hadn’t it upset John to watch Sherlock in pain, to see the man slipping away from him when John had just gotten him back? Arriving on the front step, John paused, resting his head against the cool wood of the door for a moment, and made a decision. Harry was right, it was time to let this go. He had already forgiven Sherlock, but they would never be able to move on if John insisted on hanging onto the past. He and Sherlock had a lifetime to share all of those secrets, and it wasn’t always John’s place to decide when they were ready to take those steps in their friendship ( _relationship?_ ). He braced himself and made his way inside, intending to tell all of this to Sherlock as soon as he made it upstairs. It was Sherlock’s turn to take back some of the responsibility for repairing this relationship, and if he wasn’t interested, then John supposed he would, at the very least, finally have some closure.

 

Sherlock hadn’t bothered locking his bedroom door, and John cursed himself for not checking earlier – it was a clear sign that the man had wanted to be followed. He was lying on the bed in the dark, on the side farthest from the door, his back to John. Not sure if he was sleeping, John shut the door carefully behind him and stood awkwardly by the bed, trying to determine how best to proceed. Sherlock’s voice startled him.

 

“One of them had a family.”

 

It took a moment for John to process this. “Sherlock, look, I’m sorry about earlier, but if you’re not ready - ”

 

Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “A man in Los Angeles, the one who shot me. There was a photograph of his wife and children on his desk. They all looked happy, as far as I could tell.”

 

John didn’t like Sherlock’s tone – he sounded distant, detached even more so than usual. But this was the first information Sherlock had willingly volunteered, and John was afraid to break the spell. He climbed onto the bed behind him with his back against the headboard. Sherlock shuffled a little closer to him, and John rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

 

“He ran a prominent overseas shipping business. Moriarty, and then Moran, paid him to operate a human trafficking ring. Most of their victims were sex workers, women they thought nobody would miss. Irene Adler had already infiltrated the business when I tracked him down; she was working as his secretary, looking for ways to destroy the business from the inside. She’d known some of the girls.” John’s hand twitched at Irene’s name and Sherlock paused, but John swallowed his questions ( _insults_ ) and allowed him to continue.

 

“We started working together on the case. She makes an abysmal assistant, if it makes you feel any better,” John thought he heard a smirk in Sherlock’s voice. “But it was better than working alone. One night she allowed me inside the main offices to collect evidence. We had fully intended on handing him over to the LAPD. An emergency arose at one of the shipyards and he came into the office unexpectedly. There was a scuffle, he shot me, and I forced him out of a tenth story window.” Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John couldn’t tell if that was the end of the story. He wasn’t sure where to take the conversation from there. He started to wonder if Sherlock had fallen asleep when he spoke up again, softly this time.

 

“He was a terrible person.” John could agree with that.

 

“Yes.”

 

“It was self defense.” John, puzzled, agreed with that too.

 

“I shouldn’t feel any remorse.” John didn’t know if that was entirely true; he had killed a few men in his day, all who presumably deserved it, and sometimes the guilt threatened to consume him, but he didn’t know if that would be particularly helpful for Sherlock to hear. He opted to go a different route.

 

“Then why do you?”

 

Sherlock released a bitter laugh. “Because of that damn picture. I keep asking myself if his family knew what he was like, why he had died, if they miss him, if he was a good father, what happened to his children without him, where are they all now.” He paused. “I wondered what you would think of me if you knew.”

 

John’s heart clenched. He let his hand slide up into Sherlock’s hair, carding his fingers through the curls, nearly grown all the way out now; Sherlock didn’t twist away. “I think that you did what you had to do.”

 

“That’s what Irene said.”

 

John’s hand stilled. He forced his voice to stay casual. “And that didn’t make you feel any better?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t care one way or the other what she thought. She wasn’t you. I thought…I thought I just didn’t want to be alone. I hoped that having somebody to…assist me would make things easier.” Sherlock’s voice went quiet again. “But she wasn’t you.”

 

John removed his hand from Sherlock’s hair and moved down the bed to lay behind him, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s chest, resting his head between his shoulder blades. “I’m here now.”

 

John felt a large hand move to rest over his own. “And I am eternally grateful for that.”

 

They stayed that way for a long time, John curled around Sherlock, Sherlock loosely grasping his hand. John could hear Gladstone whining and scratching at the door, now accustomed to sleeping at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, but he didn’t want to move. The dog would be okay for one night, John decided, as Sherlock’s deep, even breathing lulled him to sleep.

 

-*-

 

John stared absently at the soggy carrots on the tray in front of him, moving them around his plate listlessly with his fork. The harsh fluorescent lights in the cafeteria were doing nothing for the pounding ache in his temples.

 

“ – do you think, John?”

 

He jerked his head up and looked at the two women sitting across from him, Molly’s eyebrows raised expectantly, and Harry wearing a triumphant sort of smirk on her face. He had no idea what they wanted his opinion on, or even who had asked the question. It must have shown on his face, because Harry’s smirk fell, her face morphing into an expression of concern. Molly’s eyes were sad and she smiled sweetly at him. Harry repeated the question slowly and kindly, tone overly patient.

 

“She asked if you think this is a date.”

 

Oh. Right. They had been talking about Greg. John supposed he should be irritated that Harry’s meddling appeared to be paying off – Greg had given Sherlock a case and he and Molly had become friendly toward one another over the past couple of months, though Greg hilariously gave Harry a wide berth – but he didn’t feel much of anything today. He tried to muster up a supportive smile anyway. Molly was a good friend, after all.

 

“Maybe.”

 

It wasn’t the greatest vote of confidence, but Molly smiled beatifically at him, and Harry looked so pleased by his response that it verged on condescending. John wasn’t sure which was worse: their mollycoddling, Greg’s awkward phonecall offering to “lend an ear,” or the fact that Sherlock, his best friend in the world, hadn’t acknowledged at all that today was the one year anniversary of his wife’s death.

 

He decided that he hated all of them, a little bit. He pushed away his uneaten lunch and politely excused himself from the table, sulking in his office for the rest of the afternoon.

 

When he arrived home, Sherlock was exactly where he had left him that morning: poring over case notes at the kitchen table. It had come as something of a shock when John had awoken to find the other side of the bed cold, so used to waking up long before Sherlock most mornings. He had been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed for a couple of months now, curled around each other in a not-quite platonic, not-quite romantic embrace. They often stayed up late in the night, Sherlock filling John in on his covert activities of the past few years, and John reassuring him that he wouldn’t be scared away. Things had been good between them, and although John selfishly resented the fact that Greg’s offer of new cases meant they had less time together, he was genuinely happy that Sherlock was happy. He sighed heavily, not quite ready to face the morning chill, and rolled over to find Gladstone panting at the foot of the bed, ready for his morning walk. Memories of Mary – Mary in a wedding dress, Mary with her blonde hair fanned out beneath her on white sheets, Mary with her eyes closed and her heart still – rushed at him so violently that he felt dizzy, bolting upright in bed and scaring Gladstone back a few steps. Even visiting her grave once a week, somehow this date had managed to sneak up on him. He felt physically ill.

 

Sherlock, however, remained oblivious to John’s suffering. He greeted him faintly when he finally emerged from the room but never took his eyes off of the papers and photographs in front of him, giving no indication that he was aware of the day’s significance. John knew he wasn’t hiding it well, he wasn’t even trying to; Sherlock could easily have deduced John’s grief if he had just looked up. But he only had eyes for the case, “the game,” as he always called it. It had never bothered John particularly in the past, those hours when Sherlock seemed to forget he existed, but today he felt Sherlock’s detachment like a stab in the gut. It was even worse when he got home from work to find that nothing had changed.

 

“I’m taking Gladstone for a walk.” John spoke far more loudly than was strictly necessary, staring pointedly at Sherlock’s profile.

 

“Hmmm.” Nothing.

 

John yanked the leash off of its peg by the door and hooked it roughly to Gladstone’s collar. The bulldog nipped at his hand in admonishment. He scowled at him and moved briskly out of the flat, the overweight dog struggling to keep up. After a few blocks he, too, began to feel winded, out of shape as he was, and was forced to slow down. Gladstone glared at him haughtily as he trundled past. John smiled sadly at the belligerent dog as he attempted to switch their positions, trying to pull John forward when he paused to catch his breath.

 

“Look at us, boy, still fighting.” He remembered clinging tightly to Gladstone in the entryway of his and Mary’s flat the morning after her passing. He squatted down and scratched behind the dog’s ears in apology. “I bet you miss her, too.” Gladstone stopped struggling and turned to lick his nose in response. John blinked back a few tears and stood up from his crouch, his knees creaking with the effort.

 

It was starting to get late into the evening, and he just barely made it into the florist, the one he always went to near the cemetery, before she closed up shop for the night. As he picked his way through the headstones in the dim light, roses in hand, he wondered why today should feel any different than the hundred or so other times he’d come to visit her grave in the past year. He was mostly past any guilt he’d felt over moving things forward with Sherlock, so he didn’t think that was it: Mary had always known he’d loved the man, and he believed, with a heart as kind as hers, that she would be happy to see them grow closer. Maybe it was just the milestone itself – the knowledge that the world had moved forward an entire year without Mary Watson in it.

 

_Sherlock would probably think that’s dull and sentimental._

 

He kicked forcefully at a pile of leaves and pushed aside his bitterness for the moment. This was his and Mary’s place, the only thing he had left of her. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock’s indifference – real or imagined – ruin it.

 

Various friends and family members had been there before him today, leaving their own memorials. He placed the roses right in the middle of the bunch and sat in the grass in front of her headstone. Gladstone settled in next to him, leaning against his thigh. John patted his head and stared at the dates on the stone for several long minutes, mind blank. He didn’t really know what to say or do; it had been a long while since he’d taken the time out of his day to actually sit down here, and suddenly talking to the cold marble seemed foolish in a way it hadn’t before. He traced his fingers over her name. The stone was cold. After a few minutes he pulled his hand back and got to his feet, feeling somehow worse than he had before; he tried not to blame Sherlock for that. Just as he was about to leave, one of the flowers left earlier in the day caught his eye. It wasn’t part of any of the elaborate arrangements, didn’t have a bright bow or a colorful card printed with trite messages in overwrought script. He crouched down for a closer look. It was one white calla lily, a small, off-white piece of cardstock tied to it with black ribbon. There were only two words on the note, in Sherlock’s uneven scrawl.

 

_Thank you._

 

The walk back to Baker Street seemed to take ages, and John tried his hardest not to pull Gladstone along too forcefully behind him. When he finally pushed open the door to the flat, Sherlock was standing at the window, as if he’d been awaiting John’s return. His eyes swept over him quickly, clearly calculating, making deductions. His expression became anxious.

 

“I hope I wasn’t overstepping any boundaries; you never want to talk about her with me, I wasn’t sure what I should do. It felt a bit ridiculous, to be honest, but I thought it would be important to you that I acknowledge it, and I owe her for – John?”

 

John had braced a hand against the doorframe and was biting his fist to stifle his sobs. He felt like an idiot but he couldn’t stop. He’d managed to go the entire day without shedding a single tear, but this – knowing that Sherlock cared enough to do something he no doubt found silly and uncomfortable, that he cared about Mary too, because _John_ had loved her – was too much.

 

Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides and pulled John into a slightly awkward, uncomfortably tight hug. John didn’t care; he flung his arms around Sherlock’s waist and clung to him, burying his face in that long, pale neck. Gladstone nosed up the leg of John’s trousers and licked his ankles, upset by his master’s distress. John burrowed more fully into the embrace, and Sherlock threaded his fingers in John’s hair. John thought he felt a soft kiss pressed to the crown of his head.

 

“Everything will be okay. It’s alright now.”

 

It was the first time that Sherlock had made that promise instead of John.  And, for the first time, John thought he might actually believe it.

 

-*-

 

“Ow.”

 

“Sorry, do you need to stop for a minute?”

 

John was covered in dust and ink, the only clean part of him the pristine hospital scrubs he’d been given when they cut off his favorite pair of jeans. He leaned heavily against Sherlock’s shoulder to take the weight off of his injured right leg, his left hand pressed against the wall of the stairwell for balance. The position was incredibly uncomfortable for him, and he doubted it was much better for Sherlock.

 

“No, no, let’s get into the flat. Just be careful.”

 

“Right, sorry.”

 

This might go down in history as the worst Christmas Eve John Watson had ever experienced, aside from last year’s horrible Christmas alone. There had been a case: something ridiculous and convoluted involving a wanted murderer from Kansas, of all places, a fake will, and, eventually, a counterfeiting ring. They had finally cornered their culprit that morning in a hidden warehouse room in the home of an eccentric billionaire collector ( _naturally_ ), and the result had been a shoot out ( _of course_ ) that had resulted in John getting shot in the leg ( _brilliant_ ). It was a flesh wound, not nearly as bad as his shoulder had been, as a doctor John knew that, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a motherfucker. And then there was the matter of his ruined jeans, his absolute favorite pair, that the doctors had insisted on cutting away instead of simply removing them as he’d requested ( _It’s protocol, sir_ ). Greg and Harry, once they’d determined that he was, in fact, okay, had laughed at his indignation – _laughed_ – and John had only barely resisted the urge to punch both of them in the face. The only one who didn’t laugh, John gratefully remembered, was Sherlock. Sherlock, in fact, hadn’t said very much all day; after pistol-whipping John’s assailant in the back of the head, crashing to his knees next to John and frantically reassuring himself that the wound wasn’t serious, he had fallen into a contemplative silence, only speaking occasionally to inquire after John’s needs. It was a bit unnerving, but John was touched by his concern.

 

There was no way he was spending his Christmas Eve all night in the hospital, and Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to let him stay there, so as soon as the doctors would release him they returned home. It took ten bloody minutes to get up the few stairs into the flat, John only painfully jarring his leg the once, and John breathed a sigh of relief that Mrs. Hudson had apparently taken Gladstone down to her place. He was sure that the damn clumsy animal would have found a way to trip both of them if he’d been present. By the time they had reached Sherlock’s ( _their?_ ) bed and settled John on top of it, both men were sweaty and out of breath. John let his head fall back with a thunk against the headboard and closed his eyes.

 

Sherlock didn’t let him rest for long, pushing him forward a bit to remove his jacket and stained jumper, lifting him to push down the duvet. He wedged a pillow behind John’s back so that he could rest more comfortably and set about removing his boots, socks, and the scratchy hospital bottoms. John thought he should probably protest at being treated like an invalid, but mostly he was grateful that somebody else was taking care of him for a change. He was about to voice his thanks when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

 

_Sorry you were hurt! How are you? I’ll come see you tomorrow for Christmas. Also, Greg wants to know where to send condolences re: your jeans, w/e that means – xx Molly._

John frowned. He was definitely going to punch Greg in the face, although he was begrudgingly happy that he and Molly were apparently spending Christmas together. He typed out a quick reply.

 

_I’ll be fine. Thanks for the concern. Happy Christmas. Tell Greg to piss off (he knows why) – John_

Just as he was hitting “send,” he felt a hand come to rest on his bare knee. He was a bit startled to discover that he was stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt; Sherlock had been exceedingly careful with him, and John had barely noticed his actions until now. He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, studying the white bandage on John’s leg as if it were an important clue in a big case. He brushed his fingers up John’s leg to trace the bottom edge of the gauze, situated high on John’s thigh, the action sending a shiver through John that settled warmly at the base of his spine. He stilled Sherlock’s hand with his own and tried to catch his eye, but Sherlock remained focused on the bandage.

 

“Alright, Sherlock?

 

A pause. “People often assume that bullet wounds outside of the torso and head are always non-lethal.”

 

Ah. That’s what was bothering him. “Sherlock – ”

 

“They’re wrong, of course, as usual. Take leg wounds, for example.” Sherlock swallowed, his throat producing a dry, clicking sound, but his voice remained calm. “There are such a large number of important arteries and veins that run through the leg, many victims often bleed out mere moments after being shot.”

 

“But I didn’t bleed out, Sherlock, I’m fine.”

 

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and shook his head in irritation. “You just as easily could be dead right now.”

 

John leaned forward a bit and forced Sherlock to meet his eyes. He didn’t think those grey eyes had ever stared at him so intensely before. “But I didn’t. I’m _fine_.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his expression mulish. “I should have kept you safe.”

 

John laughed a bit in disbelief. “I _am_ safe, genius.”

 

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him lightly, his voice exasperated. “Goddamn it, John, this isn’t a joke!”

 

John snapped his mouth shut and he gaped at Sherlock. He felt bad when he realized that Sherlock was on the verge of real tears, something the man very rarely allowed anyone to see, and even then usually only when it served some sort of purpose. Sherlock’s eyes flitted over John’s face, hands sliding inward over the muscles of John’s shoulders to rest against his neck. His thumbs swept back and forth along John’s jawline in a soothing motion. John’s breath caught in his throat; this was the most intimately they had touched each other since Sherlock’s first night back nearly a year ago. John reached out to cup Sherlock’s face, tracing a thumb along one of those sharp cheekbones.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry, ok? We’re both okay.”

 

Sherlock let his forehead fall forward to rest against John’s, his eyes clenched shut, voice hoarse. “I thought for a moment that you were a dead man. Do you have any idea how much that thought terrifies me?”

 

John brushed his nose against Sherlock’s, sliding his hand through that thick hair to cradle the back of his head, voice little more than a whisper. “Yeah…I do.”

 

A strangled, anguished sound emitted from the back of Sherlock’s throat, and he closed the remaining distance between them. Their lips glided together smoothly, slowly: although there was a sense of urgency hanging over them, both men forced themselves to take their time. Their first two encounters had been rushed, almost violent; this needed to be different. John sighed at the first press of Sherlock’s tongue against the seam of his lips. Sherlock leaned into him, tipping John’s head back to lick further into his mouth. When he finally broke away, they were both flushed and panting. John tried to reel Sherlock back in with the hand on his neck, but Sherlock pulled away, instead crawling over John’s injured leg to straddle his left thigh. On his knees he loomed over him; he gripped John’s face between his hands and bent down to claim his lips once more in a fierce, desperate kiss. John’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

 

The next time Sherlock broke away, it was to tug John’s shirt over his head. He lightly scratched his nails down John’s bare chest and leaned in to worry his sharp teeth over the skin under his jaw. John’s head fell back and he let out a hiss that turned into a throaty moan halfway through when Sherlock laved his tongue over the same spot, sucking a line of wet kisses along the straining muscles and tendons of his neck. He needed more, to be closer, and he growled in frustration when his hands encountered a handful of expensive Italian silk instead of Sherlock’s hot skin. He fumbled at the buttons of the expensive shirt and Sherlock huffed out an exasperated laugh, the inept struggle interfering with his own exploration of John’s neck and chest.

 

John let out a hysterical laugh of his own. “Well it would go a lot faster if you’d just help me.”

 

John was wrong: they were both so eager that their fingers kept getting tangled up in one another, until Sherlock finally had enough and yanked the half-buttoned shirt over his head, the seams creaking and several buttons popping off in the process. John sighed in contentment when they came back together, skin against skin.

 

“You owe me a new shirt.” Sherlock’s spoke into John’s collarbone. John smiled, burying one hand in Sherlock’s hair and sweeping the other up and down Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock shivered.

 

“You’re the one who tore it.”

 

Sherlock continued moving downward, closing his mouth around one of John’s nipples. John’s grip in his hair tightened. Sherlock’s voice was muffled against his skin when he eventually replied. “Only because you were distracting me. Still your fault.”

 

John found it difficult to mount an argument, losing the thread of the conversation as Sherlock settled between his legs, tracing his tongue under the waistband of John’s boxers. Vaguely, he wondered if he should tell Sherlock to slow down – that they didn’t have to move so fast tonight, they had all the time in the world – when Sherlock nuzzled John’s clothed crotch, lips brushing his erection through the fabric, and John’s mind went completely blank. __

Sherlock eased his boxers down and off, ever careful of John’s injury. John blinked back tears when Sherlock took a moment to brush his lips softly over the bandage, pressing his forehead against John’s hipbone while he collected himself. He could feel Sherlock’s warm breath against the sensitive skin of his groin. He once again briefly considered pushing him away, not wanting to take advantage of his guilt, when one of Sherlock’s large, strong hands closed around John’s cock, gently pulling the foreskin up over the head. He slid his tongue along the space between the foreskin and glans, eyes dancing playfully when they darted up to meet John’s. John lost the ability to form words and his eyes rolled back in his head, torn between wanting to clench them shut and needing to burn this image into his memory forever. Sherlock stroked him a few times as he licked along the frenulum, pressed his tongue into the slit, before finally closing his lips around the head and hollowing his cheeks. John had to fling his arm over his face at that, chest heaving and heart beating a violent rhythm against his ribcage.

 

Sherlock spent the next several minutes teasing ( _torturing, more like_ ), keeping John just on the edge but never letting him fall over. Eventually the stimulation was too much, and John begged him to pull off. Sherlock sat back on his heels and ran the back of his hand over his glistening lips. John groaned.

 

“Christ, I thought you _didn’t_ want me to die.” Sherlock smirked. “Where the hell did you pick up that skill?”

 

He had always assumed that Sherlock was mostly inexperienced in this area, aside from Irene; he regretted his question when a shadow passed over Sherlock’s features, smile falling and grey eyes dimming. A chill travelled through John – he wondered what awful story was lurking behind that look, but he’d learned these last several months that Sherlock would tell him everything when he was ready, and now wasn’t the time to push it. His earlier concern, however, that they were going too fast, had returned in full force. He placed a hand on the side of Sherlock’s face, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip.

 

“Hey, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m just happy we’re both here and alive.”

 

Sherlock perked up a bit, eyes sparkling once more. He sucked John’s thumb into his mouth and grazed the pad with his teeth. John’s breath hitched.

 

“I’m not a blushing virgin, John, clearly.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to distract me. I mean it.”

 

“When have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want to do?””

John bit back a retort about rooftops and fake suicides. He _really_ didn’t want to get into a fight, naked and half-hard in their bed. “I just don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

 

Sherlock’s face twisted into a stubborn frown. “I _do_ owe you, everything, but that’s not what this is about.”

 

“Then what _is_ this about? Why tonight?”

 

His fingers found the edge of John’s bandage again, lightly resting against it. His eyes bored into John’s. “Because I felt today what you must have felt for three damn years, and I have an all-encompassing need to be as close to you as physically possible. I need _you_ , John.”

 

That last statement verged on pleading; John was awestruck by the powerful emotion in Sherlock’s voice, and that he was the reason for it. He couldn’t find the right words in response, so he pulled Sherlock towards him instead for another searing kiss.

 

“Do you want to stop?” The question was murmured against John’s lips, Sherlock’s tone cheeky and smug.

 

John chuckled. “Hmmmm, absolutely not, if you’re really sure.”

 

Sherlock smiled against him. “I’m _sure_. Care to give me a hand with these?” He gestured to his trousers and John laughed outright; Sherlock seemed okay, and whatever had happened to him in the past, this would be different. John would never hurt him. They both knew that.

 

He set about undoing Sherlock’s belt and zip, helping him scramble out of the rest of his clothes before they came back together urgently, hands gliding over expanses of bare skin. John had forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was like this, hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate it that first time. He was sucking one of Sherlock’s nipples, relishing the loud, debauched moan it produced, when Sherlock shifted away to rummage in the bedside table and drop something on the sheets. John looked down and saw a small tube and a foil packet. He quirked an eyebrow.

 

“Confident, were we?”

 

This time it was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes, admonishing him between kisses. “Really John – we’ve been sleeping…in the same bed now… for _months._ ” He pulled back. “Surely I’m not the only one who deduced this was coming.”

 

“Git.” John bit him playfully on the neck and soothed the spot with his tongue. He shuffled back against the headboard and rested his hands on Sherlock’s hipbones. “Just so you know, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

 

“Well, then, you’re an excellent pupil.” John snorted. Sherlock bent down to nibble at John’s lips and a hand wormed its way between them, stroking John back to full hardness. His eyes fluttered closed. Sherlock licked the space below John’s ear and whispered hotly against the shell. “Just follow my lead.”

 

“I always do.” It was horribly clichéd, but as Sherlock moaned into John’s shoulder and twisted his hand against head of his cock, John couldn’t care less.

 

Time seemed to speed up after that, although John never thought he’d forget the sight of a writhing, moaning, _gorgeous_ Sherlock Holmes straddling his thighs, three fingers buried inside of himself while John stroked him languorously slow. John was afraid he wouldn’t last long, embarrassingly close to coming when Sherlock rolled the condom on and positioned himself. He locked eyes with John and slid down one agonizing inch at a time until he was fully seated in John’s lap.

 

“ _Christ,_ Sherlock.”

 

“I know.”

 

John took a deep, steadying breath. “No, seriously.”

 

“ _Fuck,_ I _know_.” The position was somewhat awkward, Sherlock being so much taller, but John rested his head against his sternum and licked up a droplet of sweat he found there. Sherlock hummed happily and shifted, letting out a long, wanton moan at the change in angle. John saw stars and muffled a curse against his sweaty skin. Sherlock started up a slow rhythm, mindful of John’s leg, and John did his best to meet his movements, thrusting as much as he could without tearing his stitches. His arms enfolded around Sherlock’s back, trying to bring him impossibly closer, to melt into him.

 

“ _God_ , why…why are we just doing this _now_?”

 

A low chuckle vibrated in Sherlock’s chest, travelling straight through their joined bodies to John’s cock.

 

“Because… _Jesus, John_ …because you…you thought you were straight, and I was an arse.” Sherlock’s thighs were starting to shake with his efforts, his voice several octaves lower than normal. John looked up at his face and it was nearly his undoing: Sherlock’s eyes were hooded and glazed, mouth hanging open and a flush high on his cheekbones. John definitely wasn’t going to last much longer. He reached down and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s cock, wet with precome. He tried to match his strokes to Sherlock’s thrusts downward, and Sherlock let out a low whine.

 

“Then let’s make up for lost time.” Their movements became erratic, harsh, Sherlock slamming down onto him one, two, three more times before he stilled, groaning, warm wetness spilling over John’s hand. The feel of Sherlock clenching tightly around him was enough to tip John over the edge as well, and they both slumped against the headboard, sweaty and spent.

 

John fell into a post-orgasmic haze. He blinked, and the next moment he was laying down fully on the bed, condom disposed of, Sherlock’s head pillowed on his shoulder and long limbs draped across John’s left side. John pressed a fond kiss into his sweaty curls. Sherlock was loose and happy, more relaxed than John had ever seen him, words slurred against John’s shoulder.

 

“Gimme a few minutes, then I’ll see to cleaning us both up more properly.”

 

John wrapped his arm tightly around Sherlock’s middle. “Don’t you dare move.”

 

Sherlock shifted closer, nestling into John’s neck. “We’ll be disgusting in the morning.”

 

“I don’t care. You are staying right here.”

 

Sherlock kissed the underside of John’s jaw. “Always.”

 

It was probably the mushiest, least Sherlockian thing he’d ever heard the man say. He loved him for it. He squeezed Sherlock affectionately. “I love you, you know.”

 

“Hmmmm, I had deduced that.” John swatted him playfully on the back, but said nothing. After a long pause, he figured that Sherlock must have fallen asleep. Just as John was drifting off, he felt more than heard the rumble of a deep voice. “I love you too.”

 

 

 

 


	9. Some kind of resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t see why society should frown on sex in abandoned coatrooms. At our wedding people can have all of the sex in abandoned coatrooms that they want.” He tilted his head to the side. “Though we’d be sure to install locks on all of the doors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember this story? That I started _months_ ago? I finally finished it. Huzzah!
> 
> In all seriousness, though, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Life sort of got in the way for awhile, but I actually have free time now and I plan on writing more stories, perhaps a sequel (of sorts) to this one, filling in some of the gaps of Sherlock's time away. Thanks to everyone who has kept up with it, and, as always, feedback of any kind is very much appreciated!
> 
> ETA: My friend Rachel joked that an alternate title for this chapter could be "Rainbows and Buttsex"...so...there you go.

**Chapter 9: Some kind of resolution**

Greg was talking animatedly, arms gesticulating broadly and sloshing the champagne out of his glass while Molly and the rest of the wedding party gathered around him laughed raucously. John chuckled along distractedly, but his attention was elsewhere, eyes focused over Greg’s shoulder across the reception area on the tall, dark-haired man approaching the bar. Sherlock spoke briefly to the bartender, and John let out a shuddering exhale when the man passed him a glass of sparkling water.

 

It’s not that John didn’t trust Sherlock; in the three years since his return, Sherlock had more than made up for the lies of the past, and he and John had finally managed to fix their relationship, leaving Moriarty and Reichenbach and Irene behind them. While Sherlock wasn’t always the most considerate or affectionate partner a man could ever ask for, he was as fiercely loyal a boyfriend as he had always been a friend, and he had taken all of John’s admonishments about honesty to heart these past couple of years. They were happy, or as happy as the two of them could manage in the midst of the chaos that was their life.

 

Drug addiction, however, was something not so easily left in the past, and those “danger nights” John had spoken to Mycroft about all those years before seemed to loom more ominously in recent years. Whenever Sherlock failed to solve a case, or he and John had a fight, or a spell of boredom lasted a few days too long, John would have to watch him like a hawk until the cravings passed and Sherlock’s bitter invectives reverted back into the more gentle condescension he normally directed John’s way. John didn’t know if Sherlock’s discomfort in this particularly boisterous social setting would be enough to trigger an episode; God knows even he could go for a drink or ten right now, with the bad memories this occasion brought to mind ( _Mary laughing in her wedding dress, Mary falling while Molly looked on in horr- not now, John. This is their day_ ). While a few drinks didn’t _necessarily_ mean that Sherlock was going to fall back into bad habits, because Sherlock so rarely indulged in alcohol it was never a good sign when he did. Needless to say, John was relieved to see Sherlock sipping contentedly at the water, casting his usual look of bored disinterest on the revelers around him.

 

John’s relief was short-lived. Just as he tuned back into Greg’s story ( _It must be a doozy; there’s hardly any champagne left in that glass…_ ), out of the corner of his eye he noticed another figure sidling up next to Sherlock at the bar, casually brushing up against Sherlock’s side as he leaned over the counter to order a drink. John recognized him from the rehearsal dinner the night before: Geoff, Molly’s cousin, a young, former rugby star who still had the look about him: tall, taller even than Sherlock, with broad shoulders, artfully tousled hair, bright green eyes and a dazzling smile that reminded John of a shark. He stood far closer to Sherlock than necessary, than was _polite_ , in John’s estimation, and John’s eyes narrowed even further when he touched Sherlock’s arm and threw back his head in exaggerated laughter. John grabbed a flute of champagne off of a passing tray and downed it in one go. He tried to subtly crane his neck around Greg, who had moved into his line of sight, obstructing his view of the scene at the bar. It took John a full minute to realize Greg had done it on purpose, and then only when he finally looked at the man’s face and saw the drunken, shit-eating grin plastered there.

 

“Erm…sorry.” John knew he was beet red, face flushed from both jealousy and now, embarrassment.

 

“S’alright, mate.” Greg peered back over his shoulder for a moment, and when he turned back his smile was much softer. “You know you don’t have anything to worry ‘bout there, right? I’s surprised when he started dating _you_. Figured he was a robot or somethin’.”

 

Molly swatted Greg on the arm; John wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, so focused he was on spying on his partner. She reached over and grasped John’s hand lightly for a brief second.

 

“What my _husband_ ” – she beamed beatifically at that word – “is trying to say is that you’re one of a kind, John Watson. And Geoff’s a total bastard, I only invited him ‘cause mum made me. He can’t compete with you.” John looked Geoff over once more and raised an eyebrow in skeptic disbelief, and Molly giggled. “Not in _his_ eyes, I mean.”

 

“Quite right, _wife._ ” The pair of them were _revolting;_ John loved it. They’d been through almost as much as he and Sherlock, and John was thrilled that they’d found their way back to one another. He knew firsthand that such forgiveness and trust were not easy to come by.

 

Greg gripped his shoulder and steered him so that they were side by side facing the pair across the room. “Course, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go over there and let him know what’s what.” Molly giggled again and Greg pushed John towards the bar. “Go on, then. Your best man duties are officially complete.”

 

John elbowed Greg in the ribs and aimed a half-hearted glare at the couple, but he still set his shoulders and marched forward. Maybe they were right – he and Sherlock had survived through hell just to be together – but his stomach churned as he remembered a similarly handsome young man at a bar flirting with young, beautiful Mary all those years ago, and the same insecurities he’d had then were bubbling to the surface now. Neither Geoff nor Sherlock needed to know all of that, though, so John affixed his best, friendliest smile firmly in place and approached the two men with a confidence he didn’t really possess in these situations.

 

John immediately felt foolish when he got closer and noted Sherlock’s expression. He was gorgeous in his black suit, the buttons on his aubergine dress shirt straining across his chest as he leaned back with one elbow resting on the counter, his long legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. It was no wonder that Geoff had approached him – but his jaw was clenched and his eyes held that detached, _I-might-consider-killing-you-just-to-make-you-stop-talking-but-I’ll-just-shut-up-and-try-to-be-polite-because-you’re-a-friend-of-my-friends_ stare. It was a recently acquired look, one Sherlock practiced just to please John and, to a lesser extent, Greg, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and John was momentarily proud of him for this rare display of patient civility. His pride quickly passed, leaving him feeling even more ridiculous – when Sherlock saw him approaching, his whole demeanor changed: shoulders relaxing, bright eyes perking up, and mouth stretching in a small, private smile meant only for John. He tried to smile back, but he suddenly felt awkward, not sure what he hoped to accomplish by coming over here when Sherlock clearly had no intent to return Geoff’s attentions. He swallowed around the nervous lump in his throat and clenched his fists uselessly at his sides. Sherlock cocked his head a fraction of an inch and his brow furrowed, clearly assessing John’s discomfort, but if he deduced the reason he graciously didn’t say anything in front of Geoff. He did, however, straighten on his barstool and shift closer to John when he came to stand beside him.

 

“Geoff, I believe you’ve met my partner, John Watson?” Sherlock interrupted what sounded like a _thrilling_ tale about one of Geoff’s university conquests. Geoff was briefly taken aback, obviously not used to being interrupted or treated with anything less than rapt, flirtatious devotion. His eyes flitted over to John, bored, before returning to stare hungrily at Sherlock.

 

“Ah, yes, at the dinner last night. He regaled us with tales of your many adventures, at Greg’s behest. It sounds like an exciting life. Shame _you_ weren’t there to give us your take on it.”

 

Sherlock sniffed in disdain. “I can have dinner with Molly and Greg any night. Boring. Besides, there was an important case that demanded my full attention.”

 

John scoffed. “It was a four at best. You just didn’t want to come.”

 

Sherlock turned to face John more fully, expression haughty but eyes twinkling mischievously. “Come now, John. You’re the one always telling me that _every_ case is important. I was saving lives.”

 

John barked a disbelieving laugh. “It was an _art theft_ , Sherlock. You saved a Picasso.”

 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward. “People have killed for less.”

 

“Even so,” John smiled and shook his head. “You deduced the thief in five minutes. You could have easily made it to the restaurant in time.” He turned to face Geoff, earlier fears forgotten in the midst of their familiar banter. “When I got home, he was pacing naked in the living room trying to solve the Beal Conjecture with chalk on our wallpaper.”

 

Sherlock rested his glass on the bar, openly smirking now. “As I recall,” he wrapped a possessive arm around John’s waist, “you had no problem with one particular aspect of that scenario.”

 

“It’s true – I am a massive fan of unsolvable equations.” They stared at each other stoically for half a second before bursting into their usual fit of ( _masculine_ )giggles.

 

When John returned his attention to Geoff, he had to stifle a snort. Geoff stared at the pair with his eyebrows raised to his hairline, jaw hanging open a fraction. His eyes widened in realization.

 

“When you say ‘partner,’ you don’t just mean business partner, do you?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. “If that were the case I would refer to him as my associate, or colleague. There are an infinite number of words that better connote a coworker than ‘partner,’ though I don’t expect someone like y–”

 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice had taken on that warning edge, letting Sherlock know when he was venturing into the realm of impropriety.

 

He sighed deeply, but ceased his diatribe. “No, not a business partner. Although he is, of course, that as well. I _suppose_ the confusion is forgivable.”

 

John smirked at Sherlock’s behavior, but it fell when he noted Geoff’s embarrassed, disappointed grimace. When the man opened his mouth to speak, John knew it wasn’t going to be good.

 

“You’re serious?” His narrowed eyes traveled John’s body, sizing him up. John tried not to squirm under the scrutiny; he was in pretty good shape for a middle-aged man, but he knew he didn’t come anywhere near Geoff’s youthful, toned physique. “ _You’re_ ,” he gestured toward Sherlock, “shagging _him_? That’s a fucking tragedy, mate.” The predatory, shark-like smile was back. “You could do so much better, you know.”

 

As with Mary many years ago, John had trained himself not to be offended when rude onlookers commented on the differences in age and appearance between him and his partner. He was prepared to brush it off and walk away. Sherlock, however, much like Mary, possessed no such filter. Sherlock’s eyes turned cold and he stood up to loom menacingly over Geoff. John could almost see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head, and he knew he should drag him away or interrupt before Sherlock could say anything too cutting. Instead, he settled onto an empty barstool and remained silent.

 

Alright – maybe he was a _little_ bit offended. He wasn’t a fucking saint.

 

“The _tragedy_ , Mr. Peters, is that your intelligence and observational skills are so abysmally lacking that you failed to notice my complete contempt for you during the entirety of our previous conversation.” Geoff jumped to his feet at that, attempting to intimidate Sherlock, but Sherlock laughed derisively. “Ah, yes, here comes the alpha-male posturing. I expected as much from you. I can deduce from your attitude that you are clearly unused to being denied, and you take great – strike that, _obsessive_ – pride in your appearance: there are at least four different products and one – no, make that _two_ – hours of work freezing your hair into that ridiculously unkempt style. Your clothes are tailored even more than mine, which is saying something, and your tan is as fake as what John affectionately refers to as my ‘sociopath smile.’ From its precise evenness and absence of any orange hue, it costs several hundred dollars a month to maintain, and your eyes are clearly hazel masked by green contact lenses – expensive, nearly imperceptible lenses, but once again, _fake._ Everything about you, from head to toe, is contrived, shallow vanity.” Geoff had sunk back onto the barstool, appalled, but it appeared that Sherlock was just getting warmed up.

“But that’s just the surface of it – granted, you’re all about surface, but why? Why so much work? You have an adequately handsome bone structure and a naturally lean figure, not to mention slightly above average intelligence, tonight excepted, so there must be a _reason_ that you’re trying so hard. I could be maudlin and guess that beneath this performance you actually hate yourself, but I have about as much respect for pop psychology as I do for you, so I figure it’s something else.” Geoff was clearly nervous now, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. Sherlock looked triumphant. “Ah, there it is, John. Do you see it? I would have noticed it sooner except for my complete lack of interest in his appearance. You really should wear looser trousers – it outlines too well the, shall we say, _lack_ for which you are compensating. And from the way you were shifting about earlier, I’m guessing size isn’t the only cause for concern by your potential partners. Are you currently being treated for a sexually transmitted infection, or is it still undiagnosed?” Geoff looked miserable, and opened his mouth in one last pitiful attempt to defend himself. Sherlock cut him off. “It was a rhetorical question; I have no desire to know the answer. And in regards to your last assertion: there is no one better than John Watson, and if by some miracle there was, he certainly wouldn’t be _you_.”

 

Even John was floored by the intensity of Sherlock’s anger, but he had little time to process it. Sherlock reached behind him and grabbed John firmly by the wrist, throwing one last withering glare in Geoff’s direction before dragging John towards the door out of the reception hall. John came back to himself just as they crossed the threshold, and he shook himself free from Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock spun around to face him, eyes still fiery, and John held up his hands in a placating gesture.

 

“Hey, it’s fine. We’re fine. But I’m not ready to leave yet. Not until we see Greg and Molly off.” Sherlock breathed a long-suffering sigh and took John by one of his outstretched wrists again, dragging him towards a pair of double-doors down the corridor a ways, near the front door of the building.

 

“Of course we’re not leaving. I won’t be run off by an idiotic mouth-breather and I would never insult you by assuming that you would.”

 

John allowed himself to be dragged along once more, curious. “Then where…?”

 

Sherlock let go of John’s arm long enough to wrench the doors open, revealing an empty coat closet that he promptly shoved John into ahead of him, closing the doors behind them and switching on the dim overhead light. He crowded John against the back wall and hunched down slightly to press a thigh between his legs.

 

“I thought we could use a moment alone.” With no further preamble, he captured John’s lips in a slow, sensual kiss, one hand in John’s hair and the other under his jacket, pressing him forward by the small of his back. John moaned and wound his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.

 

After several long minutes of snogging, Sherlock grinding his thigh against John’s burgeoning erection, his own pressing against John’s hip, John reluctantly pulled back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

 

“This is a lovely surprise, but if we don’t stop now…I won’t be able to stop.” His voice was rough, speech sluggish. Sherlock’s laugh rumbled through both of them, and John shivered.

 

“Why in God’s name would you want to stop?” He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead, then one to his cheek, one just under his jaw, a trail leading all the way down to John’s neck just above the stiff collar of his dress shirt, where he worried at the skin with his teeth. John could feel Sherlock’s nimble fingers loosening his tie, deftly undoing the first few buttons of his shirt to give him more access to John’s skin. His fingers twisted in Sherlock’s curls.

 

“Ah…erm…” John was distracted by Sherlock’s biting kisses along his collarbone; he couldn’t remember the question. “Because…” The hand on John’s back pulled his shirt-tail out of his trousers and wormed its way underneath, fingertips tracing the bumps of his lower vertebrae, trailing downward, causing John to buck forward. Distantly he heard the tinkle of glassware and a peal of laughter, and he snapped back into focus. He grasped Sherlock firmly by the biceps and pushed him back a fraction of an inch. Sherlock huffed in frustration.

 

“Don’t, don’t you look at me like that. You know perfectly well I don’t _want_ to stop – ”

 

“Good, neither do I.” Sherlock tried to move forward, but his hold was firm.

 

“But we can’t do this _here_. In public.”

 

“It’s not public, it’s an _unused coatroom in the middle of summer,_ John. Now stop being boring and take off your clothes.” Sherlock’s hands reached for John’s belt, and he swatted them away.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, what has gotten into you?” Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides and he moved back another inch, loosening John’s grip on his arms. He focused on a point on the wall just above John’s shoulder.

 

“You believed him.”

 

John’s brain was still moving slowly, and he didn’t follow. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Geoff, that imbecile, you believed him, when he said he was better than you.” He was frowning, mouth twisted unhappily. “You thought I would be attracted to him more than I am to you.”

 

John was surprised he had enough blood left in his face to blush. “C’mon, Sherlock. That was nothing.”

 

Sherlock’s gaze was intense when it snapped back to John’s. “That’s not what you always say to me.”

 

John averted his eyes. It was true – they had unearthed a lot of secret insecurities lurking underneath Sherlock’s apparent egotism over the course of their relationship: insecurities bred out of years of insults, the scorn of schoolmates, and past, imbalanced sexual encounters, with all of the power on the other side; encounters tainted by drug use and abuse and cruelty. John supposed he always addressed those the same way Sherlock did now – physical reassurances of love and affection. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“Look, Sherlock, this isn’t the same. It was a stupid, petty thing that’s not worth getting upset over, alright? You don’t have to – ”

 

Sherlock growled and grabbed the sides of John’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Need I remind you for the millionth time that I will never do anything because I _have_ to with you, only because I _want_ to.” He smiled sadly at John. Somehow, it made him look older. He trailed one hand down to rest on John’s chest. “It’s becoming tedious, repeating myself over and over again to you. I am aware that I’m not always the most attentive to your emotional needs, and you know that in this particular arena words generally fail me.” John smirked. “Oh, shut up, you know I’ll never admit that to anyone else. But I want you to know that I have never and will never want anyone as much as I want you. I find everyone else in the word insufferably dull compared to you.” John smiled and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, nodding in acknowledgement. Sherlock’s smile widened and he shifted closer. “Now, if it’s all the same to you, can we _please_ stop having this painfully awkward conversation and return to more pleasurable pursuits? Clothes can remain on, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

 

“Oh, piss off.” It was said without ire. John pulled Sherlock towards him and resumed their earlier snogging. He had no intention of keeping his clothes on, and Sherlock, the liar, clearly didn’t either. In no time John was naked from the waist down, his shirt and jacket rucked up under his shoulder blades. He panted into the thick fabric lining the walls of the closet, one hand pinioned above his head by Sherlock’s own while the other held tightly to the bar of the coatrack for purchase against Sherlock’s thrusts. Sherlock’s bruising grip on John’s hip became slick with sweat, and he breathed heavily into the hair at John’s nape, hips stuttering an increasingly erratic rhythm. Sherlock’s jacket had been discarded, his shirt hanging open with several buttons missing, his trousers and pants shoved hastily down to his thighs, stretching the seams near the breaking point. There was no way the other wedding guests wouldn’t know what they’d been up to. As Sherlock’s hand slid around to stroke firmly at John’s cock, John could care less. His vision whited out and he came with a loud cry, Sherlock following close behind, his own sob of release muffled in John’s shirt.

 

John’s legs gave out. _I’m getting too old for this_. Sherlock followed him down to the floor, and they sat side-by-side catching their breath, backs against the wall and hands clasped between them. They broke into nearly identical grins, and Sherlock started to speak.

 

The door opened, and Harry and Beatrice entered the room, arms linked and giggling like schoolgirls. They froze in the doorway when they caught sight of the two men on the floor. The moment ruined, John frantically reached for the first article of clothing he could find – Sherlock’s jacket – and covered himself, while Sherlock hastily pulled his now-ruined trousers back up and helped John to his feet.

 

Harry slapped a hand over her eyes and moaned in disgust. “Oh my God, I will never be able to erase this sight from my brain.”

 

Beatrice leered at the two uncomfortable men. “It’s not _so_ bad…”

 

Harry groaned again and peeked through her fingers. “What the everloving fuck are you two doing in here?”

 

Sherlock tried to muster some dignity. “I should think that is obvious.”

 

Beatrice laughed and Harry looked like she might vomit. “ _Fine_. Let me rephrase that: _why_ here? How old are the two of you again? I expect better from you, John.”

 

John started to point an accusing finger at his sister but nearly dropped the jacket in the process; he settled for an indignant scowl. “You have a lot of room to talk – what were _you_ doing coming in here with her? Discussing politics?”

 

Harry blushed scarlet and Beatrice looked like she couldn’t be more pleased with the entire situation. John wondered if Mycroft knew his assistant was such a sadist.

 

“We will _never_ speak of this again.” With that, Harry turned on her heel and flounced out the door, Beatrice trailing after her, chuckling serenely.

 

Sherlock crossed the room and plucked John’s pants and trousers from the corner, tossing them over. John dressed quickly, still mortified, while Sherlock tried to make the remaining tatters of his shirt look remotely presentable. He settled for buttoning his jacket over the worst of the tears and tried futilely to smooth out the wrinkles in his trousers. He cleared his throat.

 

“You know by now that Beatrice will have texted Mycroft about all of this. Don’t be surprised if he mentions it at dinner tomorrow…”

 

He could barely meet John’s astonished face before he broke into delighted laughter. Harry wasn’t the only one attracted to sadists.

 

“ _That_ was _not_ funny.” John harshly stuffed the end of his shirt into his trousers. It only made Sherlock laugh harder.

 

“Oh I beg to differ. That entire situation was objectivelyhumorous.” He started to redo John’s tie while John buckled his belt. John couldn’t help but smile at Sherlock’s amusement, even if he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget the past few minutes ever happened.

 

After they returned to the reception, Greg refused to look at them, his gaze pointedly elsewhere and lips pressed tightly shut, as if stifling laughter, whenever John risked a glance at him, and Molly looked ready to throttle them both. Sherlock seemed oblivious to all of the reproachful stares directed their way, maintaining his usual air of arrogance in spite of the bright red love bite standing out against the pale skin of his neck and his completely disheveled appearance. He radiated such self-assurance that it was almost possible for John to feel equally unembarrassed standing next to him. Almost. Still, he was relieved when Greg and Molly had finally departed and they could make their way back to the flat.

 

“I don’t know why you care so much what they think. I had a good time, and all of the evidence suggests that you did as well.”

 

John sighed and laid his head back, rolling his neck to look at Sherlock across the cab’s backseat. “I don’t know why either, Sherlock. But society has certain rules, and I like to try to follow them on occasion.” Sherlock turned to stare sullenly out of the window. John smiled at his moodiness. “But yes, I had a good time.”

 

Sherlock quirked his lips and seemed satisfied with the answer. John reached for his hand across the seat, and Sherlock twined their fingers. John started to nod off when Sherlock began speaking again.

 

“I don’t see why society should frown on sex in abandoned coatrooms. At our wedding people can have all of the sex in abandoned coatrooms that they want.” He tilted his head to the side. “Though we’d be sure to install locks on all of the doors.”

 

John stared at Sherlock’s profile with an eyebrow raised. “ _Our_ wedding?”

 

Sherlock shifted but kept his gaze fixed firmly on the passing scenery. “Hypothetically, of course.”

 

John closed his eyes and smiled widely. He knew that the chances of having an actual wedding were slim, and he didn’t really want one anyway – that wasn’t really their style. But he also knew about the Westminster Civil Partnership brochure saved on Sherlock’s desktop. And he knew about the two simple, platinum wedding bands haphazardly hidden behind Plutarch on the bookshelf. John didn’t know if he was supposed to mention them – Sherlock was usually better at hiding things he didn’t want found – or if Sherlock was waiting for the right moment, but right now it was enough to know that, for whatever reason, Sherlock really intended to stay with him for good, that he wasn’t going to leave John behind again. He could wait for the rest. Although he might move the rings to a higher shelf; Gladstone couldn’t be trusted around expensive jewelry.

 

 

 


End file.
